


Backs Bound In Twine

by tealeaves



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Queen in the North, Rare Pairings, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-10 22:38:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7863949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tealeaves/pseuds/tealeaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark did not flee King’s Landing. Jaime Lannister arrived just in time to witness the burial of his son, and to have the Kingsguard stripped from him by his father. In return, Tywin Lannister gave his son a snow maid to wife. He is her key to unlocking the North; she is his last chance for honor. Together, they must navigate the frosty landscape of Winterfell and their marriage, and decide where their loyalties lie - with one another, or with the outside forces that strive to pull them apart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Joanna Newsom's "You Will Not Take My Heart Alive". Characters, certain lines, and some dialogue do not belong to me; the plot, for what it's worth, is mine own.

" _And how long did you climb that night_  
_With the ice in your lungs, on the rungs of the light?_  
_Beyond recall, you severed all strings  
__To everyone and everything_

_Oh silent, constant driver of mine_  
_Wordlessly calling from the end of the line_  
_Where even though each hour I ever loved  
_ _Must queue and dive  
_ _Still, you will not take my heart alive_

_In martial wind, and in clarion rain_  
_We minced into battle, wincing in pain;  
_ _Not meant for walking, **backs bound in twine:  
**_ _Not angel or devil but level in time_

_And I rose, to take my shape at last_  
_From the dreams that had dogged me, through every past_  
_When to my soul the body would say:  
_ _You may do as you like  
_ _As long as you stay"_

_- “You Will Not Take My Heart Alive”, Joanna Newsom_

  

Sansa knew she should have fled. Everything had been in place for her, for days, ready to take her from the Red Keep, from Joffrey, from the Queen and to safety. She knew she should make her way to the godswood, to change her clothes, to run to the harbor and let a ship carry her far from King’s Landing, from all of the pain and humiliation that the Lannisters had caused her. She had been ready, and her Florian was waiting. She should have fled.  

But she hesitated a moment too long in the hallways of the Keep, torn between a flight for her life and running to her chambers, barricading the doors, and praying for mercy, for the bells to stop tolling, sounding their death knell endlessly in her head. _The King - the King is dead!_  She laughed suddenly, hysterically, and was laughing still when a knight of the Kingsguard swept her up and half-carried, half-dragged her into the deep, dark dungeons below. 

**

Tywin Lannister drummed his fingers on the heavy mahogany table, regarding his son with a muted fury that shifted slightly into a calculating, piqued interest. Jaime felt, as he often did, as an insect beneath glass under the scrutiny of his father. He cradled his stump to his chest and said nothing, and the silence stretched long between them. 

“You cannot serve on the Kingsguard without a sword hand,” Tywin said finally. Jaime went cold. 

“I can,” he countered, “and I will. There’s precedent. I’ll look in the White Book and find it, if you like. Crippled or whole, a knight of the Kingsguard serves for life."

“Cersei ended that when she replaced Ser Barristan on the grounds of age. A suitable gift to the Faith will persuade the High Septon to release you from your vows. Your sister was foolish to dismiss Selmy, admittedly, but now that she has opened the gates-"

“- someone needs to close them again,” Jaime interrupted. _No!_  Everything inside him shouted. _Not the Kingsguard! Not Cersei._ Even though the look on her pale face in the sept was all too fresh in his mind, he could not stand the thought of not being at her side after all these years. He was nothing without her, was never whole. “I am tired of having highborn women kicking pails of shit at me, father. No one ever asked me if I wanted to be Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, but it seems I am. I have a duty-"

“You do.” Tywin rose to his feet, and Jaime couldn’t help but recoil slightly. He blamed it on the weakness from weeks on the road. “A duty to House Lannister. You are the heir to Casterly Rock. That is where you should be.” He paused. “And it is past time you were wed."

“ _No!”_  Jaime lurched forward, but Tywin continued as if his son’s outburst had never happened. 

“The Tyrells are now insisting that Margaery be wed to Tommen,” he mused thoughtfully, looking over Jaime’s shoulder to the fire burning in the grate. “I could offer you instead, but they may take offense at a crippled knight dismissed from the Kingsguard when it’s a queen’s throne they want for the girl. And marrying her to you would raise the question of finding another suitable match for Tommen… There is the Dornish princess-"

“ _Dorne?!_ Didn’t you hear me, father? I said _I will not wed_!” Jaime shouted, and Tywin’s pale, cold eyes slid calmly to his son’s flushed face. Jaime’s shoulders shook, his jaw clenched tight with fury, but Tywin seemed entirely unconcerned with his rage. 

“But I have a mind to marry your sister to Oberyn Martell to strengthen that alliance,” he continued, and Jaime recoiled as if he’d been slapped. _Cersei?! To that vile Viper, who has more bastards than Robert Baratheon and lies with men as well as women?_  He felt sick, imagining the Dornishman’s hands on his sister’s smooth, pale skin, in her golden hair… Oberyn Martell would not be stupid, slovenly enough to be so drunk every time he try to lay with her. Jaime stumbled back until he was close enough to the fireplace to lean on the grate, supporting himself with his good hand as his head swam. 

Tywin’s eyes found Jaime’s face; he seemed utterly unmoved by his son’s distress. “You say that Lady Catelyn Stark held a sword to your throat and made you swear to return her daughters?” A smile began to play at the corners of his mouth, although it was completely unreflected in his eyes. “Perhaps you shall. Perhaps you shall take Sansa Stark home to Winterfell as your bride.” 

The bite of Tywin’s words at his ears were as sharp as the bite of Catelyn Stark’s sword at his heart. _Sansa Stark…_ his head swam. “She is a traitor,” he managed, “and married to my traitorous brother. Has she not been imprisoned for regicide, father?"

Tywin scoffed. “That is your sister’s doing, and the girl is to be released. She had no part in it, of that I am certain. She is a child and a fool, although she is a pretty fool.” The older man regarded Jaime shrewdly, wondering whether his interest would be piqued at the mention of Sansa’s beauty. It wasn’t. “As for the marriage, it will be annulled, along with your vow to the Kingsguard. Your brother did not manage to fulfill his duties in the marriage bed, it seems, and the girl reminds maiden."

“She can die a maiden as far as I’m concerned. I don’t want her, and I don’t want your Rock!” 

“Yet you shall have them both all the same,” said Tywin. His voice was ice-cold and would allow no argument. “You are my son and the true heir to Casterly Rock. With the death of Catelyn Stark and that upstart pup of hers, the Stark girl is the heir to Winterfell. Your child will be heir to both, bringing the North to King’s Landing. A union too important to leave to lesser players. You are a Lannister first and foremost, Jaime, and it’s time you did your duty to your family and your House. You will wed the Stark girl, and you will take her to Casterly Rock and to Winterfell, to show the North their new Warden. And Jaime-"

Tywin stepped forward, clapping a hand on Jaime’s shoulder in a show of joviality that both knew to be a complete and utter lie. 

“- you _will_  do your duty in the marriage bed.” 

He squeezed Jaime’s shoulder, and Jaime swayed. His heart was in his stomach and his stomach was somewhere in the region of his knees; he felt sick; he could not get the imagine of dark Dornish hands on Cersei’s white skin from his mind, but now another face joined the fray, bright auburn hair and blue eyes swirling, teasing. He hardly heard the door shut as Tywin left the solar, and remained there, alone, long after his father had gone. 

**

He had been well in his cups when he showed up at Sansa Stark’s door in the dead of night. 

He hardly drank anymore, not really, only a cup or two when decorum demanded it, but he hated what it did to Cersei, and especially with the loss of his hand, he wanted his wits about him. Still, on occasion Bronn was able to get him to drink more than he wanted, or meant to, and on this particular evening he’d thrown back more goblets of wine than he’d cared to admit in a defiant attempt to keep up with the sellsword, who had passed into his service along with Tyrion's squire Podrick Payne. Somehow, the rough commoner was able to disarm Jaime, although Jaime suspected it was all a ploy to beat him handily at sword practice in the morning. Not that Bronn needed Jaime drunk or hungover to beat him - Jaime wasn’t taking to left-handed sparring as well as he would have liked. 

He hadn’t noticed where his feet were carrying him, didn’t get a chance to question his own intentions until he recognized the part of the Keep where the Stark girl kept her bedchamber. Bracing himself against the doorframe, he knocked with his good hand - loud enough to rouse the occupant of the bedchamber, but soft enough to avoid alerting the guards posted nearby. He knew very well that they were Cersei’s, and even in his inebriated state he did not want her learning that he had been at the Stark girl’s door so late, and drunk. The last thing he needed was more of his twin’s wrath.  

Silence from the bedchamber. He knocked again, and finally heard a quiet rustle; the creak of wood, more rustling; soft footsteps from within. The door latch clacked, and the heavy wooden door swung open slowly to reveal a soft glow and Sansa Stark’s slight form, veiled in shadow and dim firelight. Her face was shadowed, the light catching her red hair in a dark blaze; she clutched a robe around her slim shoulders, barefoot - he guessed she was only in her smallclothes underneath. 

She blinked sleepily at him. “Ser Jaime."

“My lady Stark."

Her shoulders stiffened. He was proud of himself for not slurring his words, although he guessed that the stink of wine rolled off him in waves. Her face remained in shadow, the door open only a crack, but there was a brightness to her eyes. “I am a Lannister now, Ser. Am I being summoned? It’s quite late."

“No,” he said, and swayed slightly. “We’re to be married."

A pause. “As I have been told, ser.” 

“You’ll be a Lannister twice over."

Another, longer pause. “I am glad for it, ser."

He made a sound that was somewhere between a chuckle and a scoff. “Little wolf maid like you, I doubt it."

“I am glad to serve the crown in whatever way I can, Ser. My allegiance is not to the traitors of the North.” Her voice, low and small, still hinted at iron underneath. Even now, in the dead of night, barely clothed and defenseless, she was the very picture of propriety, still and courteous. He had a most curious urge to wrap his fingers around the dark flame of her hair; an urge that he resisted. 

“What is the meaning of your visit, Ser? It _is_  late, and you seem... weary. You should be to your bedchamber, my lord.” 

He laughed, low and ugly. “Maybe I would rather to yours, little wife.” 

She flinched; he could tell, even in his impaired state, that she tried not to, but her body shuddered. Mere moments later, her spine straightened and she lifted her chin defiantly, although her fingers gripped the door so hard her knuckles turned white. “We are not yet wed, Ser."

“We will be within a fortnight."

“Not such a long time to wait, then."

Her voice shook on the last words, cutting through the fog of drink clouding his head, and with a start he saw her as if anew. A young woman, barely older than a girl, beautiful and endangered, a child playing at a knight’s bravery. Cersei had never been so delicate, had never seemed so frightened, had never been so young. He felt a curious rush of goodwill towards Sansa, an urge to protect that he found strange and unfamiliar. It unsettled him. 

Reaching out, he gripped her chin between the fingers of his good hand. This forced him to let go of the door frame, and he lurched forward ungracefully, bringing up his right arm to steel himself. His golden hand hit the wall with a _clang_ ; Sansa’s eyes widened just as he froze, and her thin arm flew up to grasp at his wrist, long fingers wrapping around his arm with a surprising steely strength. They both held their breaths, motionless, listening for any movement from down the corridor. What seemed like an eternity later, they exhaled. Sansa’s gaze flew from her vantage point down the hall to Jaime’s face. Their eyes met, their bodies still. Her skin was soft under his callused hand, the bones of her face fine and delicate. He traced his thumb lightly over the line of her jaw, running his eyes over the wispy red curls over her ear, until he noticed it. A big, ugly bruise covered most of her cheek, violet turning to yellow at the edges, bleeding into her hairline. His vision went sharp, and everything slammed suddenly into focus - the dried blood on her split lip, how ragged and broken her nails were, rust under their half-moons, more bruises and scrapes over her collarbone, where her moon-white skin disappeared into her thin robe.  

“Sansa,” he rasped, a strange shock running through him, startling him sober. “What-"

She stepped back quickly, out of his grasp, wrapping her arms around herself once again and burying her fists in her robe, her eyes downcast. “It is nothing, Ser. It will fade before our wedding, my handmaiden has brought me a salve. My actions displeased the Queen, of course, she believed me to be guilty, but she has shown me mercy in her great wisdom. I owe it all to the Lady Queen, Ser.” Her blue eyes flickered to his face once again, and he wasn’t too drunk to detect the double meaning in her words. 

“My sweet sister was not too pleased to receive word of our betrothal,” he admitted. ‘Not too pleased’ was putting it lightly, really - Cersei had raged and raved and thrown a crystal flagon at Jaime’s head. _You should have stood up to him!_ he remembered her shouting, her green eyes blazing like wildfire. _You should have defied him!_  He had wondered to himself if she planned to defy her own impending betrothal to the Dornish prince, but did not risk life and limb to give voice to his curiosity. He merely ducked the flying objects and tried to soothe her, and gave up sooner than either of them had anticipated, judging by the shocked look on his sister’s face when he stalked out of her solar.  

Now, looking at Sansa Stark’s bruised and bloodied face, it was clear that in his failure to soothe his twin, she had taken out her wrath on the Northern girl. Imprisoned in the dungeon alongside her husband, Sansa was a convenient target - after all, who could say whether the damage was done by a guard, trying to gauge the truth of the King’s murder from his suspect? 

“My Lady Queen has just lost her son, and my family has betrayed the Crown,” Sansa said softly. “I cannot imagine her anguish, and cannot fault her for thinking ill of me. I can only hope that she can, in time, forgive me, as my good-sister.” Jaime squinted at her, thinking that was as likely to happen as his hand growing back; he thought that the girl knew it as well. Her song was sweet, though, even as the face that gazed at him bore the worst of his twin’s temper. 

“She shall never lay a hand on you again,” Jaime heard himself saying before he could stop himself. In truth, he had no idea how he would stop his sister from taking her vengeance, but as the words crossed his lips he knew them to be true. He had broken enough oaths in his life, and this birdlike girl in front of him did nothing to deserve Cersei’s wrath except be young, beautiful, and naive. _She is but a child_ , he thought, taking in her narrow shoulders, her loose auburn hair. _If I am to be her husband_  - something he still seethed at, resented his father powerfully for forcibly taking away the white cloak of the Kingsguard, all that he had worked for his whole life, his whole self - _if I am to be her husband, I must protect her._

He barked a laugh at that thought. He had never protected anyone in his life but Cersei, not truly, and now he was going to protect his child bride from Cersei. It was too good, really, the irony of it all. He laughed again, and Sansa stepped forward, raising one slim hand in fearful warning. 

“Hush, Ser, please, the guards will hear!"

Her robe had fallen open and Jaime could see that she was indeed only in her smallclothes underneath; the dim room kept her body in shadow, but he could still see the dark marks of violence stark against her skin where the pale, soft garments did not cover her modesty. He felt sick, suddenly, and lurched backwards from the door, the dimly lit bedchamber, the ember-haired girl. He felt drunk again - the world swam in front of his eyes, Cersei’s beautiful face screwed up in rage, Sansa’s bloodied lips, Bronn swinging a broadsword towards his face, the steely eyes of his father - and spun on his heel, stumbling down the hall. 

 “Goodnight, Lady Stark,” he rasped, and did not wait to see what response, if any, Sansa gave to the night air. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, another 'Jaime marries Sansa after Joffrey's death' fic. (I know, so original.) I am new to writing in the aSoIaF fandom and I'm new to the ship (although I will go down with it) but not new to the fandom or fic writing in general. (I'm old, y'all, so old.) I am trying to stay canon-compliant up to Jaime & Sansa's wedding, and will likely go lightly AU after. I'm really interested in exploring both of their characters as well as their relationship without straying too far from canon, so this will definitely be a slow burn. If UST is your thing, you're probably in luck! Comments and feedback is very much appreciated, I'd love to hear what the readers think!


	2. Chapter 2

When he swung the cloak of Lannister red and gold over Sansa Stark’s shoulders, she flinched. He could tell that she tried not to, but could not stop a shiver from racking her whole body. To her credit, she caught herself quickly and stood straight, still as a statue, eyes locked firmly forward. He clasped the lion’s head over her collarbone clumsily with his one good hand, his fingertips brushing warm skin, and she stared steadily ahead, past his shoulder, her blue eyes empty and bright with unshed tears. He recalled, despite himself, the girl that had greeted the royal party at Winterfell all those years ago, her idealistic sighs as the train rolled in, her giggles, her pretty curtsy. Doubtless she had dreamed about her wedding day then; doubtless this was not the day she had wished for.

Her hands shook, ever so slightly, in his; he felt it in his good hand, felt nothing in his gold one, although he thought that he sensed her slim fingers on the cool metal. The High Septon intoned on, and Jaime willed him to get it over with. He wanted nothing so much as to be away from the dais, away from his shivering, winter-cold bride, away from the curious glances and whispers of the court. He’d rather be in some dark, dank tavern with Bronn, drowning his thoughts in another tankard of cheap, sour ale. He’d rather be anywhere else.

“You may kiss your bride,” the septon droned, and both of them started. Sansa kept her eyes firmly downcast, but her grip on his fingers tightened somewhat; to still her shaking, he thought. He could sense the fear on her, defenseless as she was, a wolf without her pack in front of a pride of lions. He wondered if this was how her first wedding to his brother had gone, then leaned forward. The girl did not recoil, as he half-expected, but held still as a statue, a maid turned stone. She did not lift her face for the kiss, however, and he had to bend down awkwardly, crouching to meet her lips with his. There were titters from the audience. Her lips were soft, and her mouth did not open to his. He had never kissed anyone other than Cersei, and kissing Sansa Stark was like kissing a snow maid, still and unresponsive. He straightened, and resentment bubbled up within him. The girl turned her face ever so slightly away from him, not enough to show the court her displeasure but just enough to signal to him what she thought of his kiss.

Jaime didn’t know what he expected - or, truly, what he had wanted from his Northern bride. It wasn’t as if this marriage had mattered to him, he reminded himself. Neither of them had wanted this. All he wanted was the Kingsguard and Cersei. He had no idea what Sansa Stark wanted.

Sansa, like Jaime, wanted to be as far away from the dais, the sept, and the court as he did. As they turned to face the small crowd gathered in the sept, proclaiming their union with less pride than should be shown by newlyweds, she couldn’t help but think back on her first wedding day, not too long ago, when she was first made a Lannister. She wore the same samite and lace gown - the tear in the sleeve from Joffrey’s rough hands had been carefully repaired - and the same maiden’s cloak of Stark colors, as she remained a maiden still and they couldn’t, after all, trade one Lannister cloak for another. The attendees were even fewer now than had been then, with a few notable absences. Sansa had noticed that Cersei was not in the crowd, although the Tyrells were in attendance, Margaery smiling sadly at her from Tommen’s side. She has escaped her monster, but I have only traded one monster for another. Thankfully, further humiliation was avoided when Jaime had cloaked her in Lannister colors, as at least he was tall enough to reach her shoulders, although he fumbled with the clasp somewhat, his gold hand striking her across the collarbone. She did not think he meant to hurt her, but knew that a bruise would bloom there all the same.

The feast was hardly a feast at all, sparsely attended and subdued; it was in poor taste to celebrate when the realm was still in mourning, and Sansa wished that they had been able to postpone the wedding. Tywin Lannister had insisted, though. There was somber music but no dancing, and Sansa was desperate to dance - at least she had danced at her first wedding. At least Joffrey isn’t at this wedding, she reminded herself. He was gone, gone forever, he would never again threaten her or smile at her with his wormy lips or touch her and tear her clothing. Her heart sang at that thought, and she chanced a glance at her husband at her side. Jaime was eating, slowly and clumsily, his fork in his left hand; he looked near as uncomfortable as she felt and he did not look at her. He did not drink his wine, either, although she sipped at hers a little, trying in vain to calm her nerves. A string of well-wishers approached the high table to pepper them with courtesies, and Sansa attended to them, a smile on her lips and words of gratitude on her tongue. Jaime remained silent, and her heart descended to the vicinity of her knees. Her new husband may not have looked a monster, but she did not think he would be kinder to her than Tyrion had been. It’s my claim they want, she thought with bitterness, although her words were sweet.

**

His father’s words echoed in his head. You will do your duty in the marriage bed. Sansa stared at him from the object in question, perched on the edge like a little bird about to take flight at the slightest noise, any sudden movement. Jaime wondered what her first wedding night had been like, with his brother, if they had truly never consummated their marriage; he wondered if he would even know the difference. Truth be told, the Lion of Lannister was at a loss when it came to his young Northern bride.

Sansa eyed the older man warily, and her breath came shuddering, as if she was unable to fill her lungs properly. Jaime Lannister looked the picture of all she had ever wanted - or he had, once, before captivity and hunger starved him, painted dark circles beneath his eyes, and stolen his sword hand. Still, he was handsome, even though he looked thinner and older than last she saw him, even though he looked so much like the Queen. That was the one saving grace about her first Lannister marriage, she allowed - Tyrion had looked nothing like his sister. Well, that and the fact that he had never forced himself on her, left her her maidenhead and some peace; he had been kind. She was not so sure that the Kingslayer would be so courteous.

He took a step closer, and she shook slightly, her lungs constricting. It’s just nerves, she told herself. A lady can only be relieved from her marital duties so often on her wedding night. She prayed it would be over soon. Her shaking hands reached for the laces of her gown, and she flashed back to the first time she had undone those laces, only a few moons ago... her fingers fumbled with the fabric while she struggled to breathe, she could feel her chest flushing, her breasts heaving above the low neck of her gown, her whole body gasping for air. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Jaime looking concerned, raising his hands as if to still her, but she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe, oh gods, Maiden and Mother help me-

Blood bubbled from her lips. She raised a shaking hand to wipe at it, but bright droplets fell from her mouth to her bodice before she could catch it. “Oh,” she said faintly, disappointed that she had ruined such a beautiful gown. This wedding night was going no better than the first. More blood spattered her dress and hands, and through a fog, she saw Jaime Lannister rush towards her, felt him cradle her in his arms as her body went limp, heard him should for a maester before her world went black.

**

For the long days that Sansa spent lying motionless and unconscious in her marriage bed, Jaime hardly left her side. For each evening where the setting sun cast shadows of her lashes on her pale cheeks, for each morning when she did not wake, for each day that she rested abed, skin as white as the crisp linens around her, he was at her bedside. He did not pray, to the Seven or any other gods; he did not touch her, didn’t clasp her cold hands or stroke back her hair or cradle her cheek; he simply sat there, alternating between gazing out of the window and watching her still form, hoping weakly that she would stir and rise and that his guilt would abate.

The maester had arrived just in time, he’d said, to stop the poison from reaching her heart. The old man had given her something, had made Jaime hold her face, her mouth slightly open as he tipped a small vial of clear liquid between her bloodied lips. There was blood everywhere, dripping down her neck and chest, staining her silver gown, smearing his hands; he paid it no mind as the fingers of his good hand squeezed her jaw lightly, the other arm supporting her head. The maester had sat back, and her body had thrashed then, shaking fearfully and furiously, until Jaime feared that she would hurt herself, snap one of those delicate bird bones. She had retched, and a black liquid came from her mouth, spilling over his hand and the fine rug underneath, and he had recoiled in disgust but still held her as she shook and vomited and, finally, stilled and breathed softly.

“She should live,” the maester said finally. It was not the old fool Pycelle - only later had Jaime learned that it was the Tyrells’ own maester, traveling with them to the capitol. Seemingly they did not trust the care at the Red Keep, and seemingly with good reason. The old man had laid a cool, dry hand on Jaime’s forearm as he sat on the floor, cradling his new wife’s limp form in his arms, leaned in and said softly, “but take care to stay with her as she recovers.” Their eyes met, and Jaime nodded. He knew the danger she was in.

He did not stir from her bedside, day or night, leaving briefly only to use the privy when absolutely necessary, until Margaery Tyrell came to him on the third day. She had come before, as had several other lords and ladies, to stand back and make vague noises of pity under the guise of ‘checking on the poor young Lady Lannister’ and surely take gossip back to their damned sewing circles. (His sweet sister was notably absent from this parade of nobles.) But this time, she brought her brother, the Knight of Flowers, and that damned wench. She stood behind his chair and laid her hands lightly on Jaime’s shoulders and promised him that Sansa would be safe. She, Margaery, would sit with Sansa, and Loras and Brienne would guard the door of the bedchamber and allow no one in. He must step away, take a bath, eat a proper meal and get some sleep. It would do the Lady Sansa no good if her husband wore himself out by her bedside. He must be alert, she said softly and sweetly, to protect her once she woke.

He went. Outside of the bedchamber, Brienne met his eyes and nodded once, firmly, and he knew that Sansa was safe with the Maid of Tarth watching over her. Brienne had been with him when he had made his oath to Catelyn Stark and she would never allow any harm to come to her daughter. He stumbled the few corridors to his own bedchamber in a daze, and fell into bed as a man slain. All thoughts of a bath and a proper meal faded as soon as he saw his bed; his limbs felt weighed down, the gold hand was as heavy as an anchor, dragging him deep into the seas of his dreams. He did not even bother to remove his boots before sleep claimed him.


	3. Chapter 3

In his dreams, it was red hair that tumbled over his shoulders and tickled his chest, small pale hands that stroked his arms gently, and a girlish voice that whispered sweet words into his ear. It was only when the hands slid down his stomach and eased at the laces of his breeches that he jerked awake, half-hard and fully discomfited. Red turned to gold as the voice purred in his ear, soft and low - the voice of his twin. Her fingers stroked him through the fabric and he grew harder despite himself. Truly awake now, he pushed at her, shoving her hands away, as he rolled from her.

“Why push me away, brother?” Cersei asked, an edge of bitterness in her voice. “As I recall, you did not object to my touch in the sept.”

It was wrong, he wanted to say, but knew it was futile. He had a different battle to fight.

“You poisoned my wife,” he said instead. At his accusation, Cersei laughed, low and throaty. How he’d loved that laugh.

“Only fitting, don’t you think?” she said, her voice itself poisonous. “That wolf bitch poisoned our son on his wedding day. Why should she not get the same?"

“She didn’t kill Joffrey,” he protested weakly. In truth, he did not know if she’d had a hand in his death or not, but that odd, unsettling urge to protect her rose within him again.

“I will never believe that she is innocent,” said Cersei harshly. “I don’t know what she’s done to have you and Father fooled, but I did not think you were so easily convinced by a pretty face and girlish tears. Besides, she has no business being wed to you. You and I are meant to be-"

“I asked you to wed me,” he reminded her. “In the sept. Or have you forgotten? You told me I had lost my wits at Riverrun."

She sighed. Gods, she is so beautiful. And she was, her golden hair undone and falling over her bare shoulders, a loose dress of crimson silk cascading over her full breasts, dipping between her thighs, her skin creamy and warm, her emerald eyes gleaming with the hunger he had so loved. “We cannot wed, Jaime, not ever, but you are mine,” she said fiercely. “You will always be mine. You were never meant to marry another! You were meant to stand by my side, mine and our children’s as they took the throne of the Seven Kingdoms. That is where you belong.” She reached for his hand - the right one, by force of habit - but stilled herself, remembering, and laid her hands on his chest instead. Her touch sent a fire through his skin. At that moment he wanted her, more than anything, and he hated her, for tearing him in two. Only days ago, he thought that he would never be whole without her, but now he knew that as long as he was near her, he could never be whole. He moved away, out of her reach, and did not fail to note the spark of fury in her eyes as her hands fell to her sides.

“And yet here I am,” he said, trying to keep his voice light and neutral. “Wed to that wolf bitch, as you call her. Wed before men and gods-"

“Stranger take them all!” she laughed. “When did you ever care about the gods or the opinions of lesser men?"

“I swore an oath to protect her,” he said. She laughed again, opened her lovely mouth to counter, but he spoke first. “Haven’t I broken enough oaths?” He had sworn an oath, up on the dais of the sept where he had fucked his sister, to honor and protect Sansa Stark, his frosty winter bride, before the judging eyes of the court and the knowing eyes of the Seven. And all of his broken oaths weighed so heavily on him now. Kingslayer, he thought wearily.

Sansa Stark is my last chance for honor.

“Jaime,” she said, reaching for him once again. He caught her wrist in midair with his good hand.

“You will not come near my wife again, sweet sister,” he heard himself saying. It was like another man was saying those words, another man was warning the woman he had loved for his entire life away from a bride he had never wanted, another man was pushing a part of himself away and locking it up forever. “Father wants us to leave for Casterly Rock as soon as Sansa is well-"

Cersei hissed, teeth clenched so tightly the line of her jaw set sharp enough to cut. She ripped her wrist from his fingers and he was unable to hold on, weakened as he was from weeks in captivity and on the road. In one fluid movement she slid backwards off his bed and stood to her full height, statuesque and lovely, her anger so plain that sparks almost flew from her skin.

“If you leave,” she growled, “do not ever return. Not while I live and breathe.”

He had no response to that, no sharp and witty retort. He only watched her with a sadness she seemed to ignore as she backed away from him, lifted the door’s latch behind her back, and was gone into the night with only a wave of subtle scent and a golden glow that faded all too quick. He remained sitting there, his hand fallen limply to the mattress, for a long time yet as all trace of her dissipated into the dawn.

**

Sansa gazed up at the horse with doubt in her eyes, teeth worrying at her bottom lip. “I am not such a strong rider,” she said finally, the doubt evident in her voice. “It was my sister Arya…” she trailed off, her eyes now taking on a faraway look. Jaime thought that she must be away in some snow-filled winter courtyard, watching her siblings play at fighting, that boyish sister of hers cantering around them on horseback. He didn’t truly recall what Winterfell’s courtyard had looked like from his visit years ago - he had more important matters on his mind then. A pang of guilt struck his heart, and he shrugged the thought off. He would be reminded in truth soon enough.

“Would it not be possible to take a carriage, Ser?” Her small voice startled him from his reverie, and he shook himself lightly, turning to his lady wife. Sansa’s face was pale above a high-necked riding coat of soft brown leather, her hair elaborately plaited away from her face. Several paces away, her bedmaid eyed her own horse with dismay, her nose wrinkled. At least the Maid of Tarth was already astride her steed, gazing into the distance at the Kingsroad.

“You forget we are still at war, my lady,” he reminded her, not unkindly. Over the past fortnight, he had to remind himself often not too be too harsh with the girl; she was, after all, young and had experienced much at the hands of his sweet sister. Jaime didn’t like to think about that too much, but he felt a sort of obligation to the girl, as if trying to prove to her that he could be different from the rest of his house. That he could be better. “A carriage or a litter will draw the attention of deserters, brigands, and the like, and would slow us down if we needed to flee - ride quickly,” he corrected quickly as Sansa’s eyes widened. “The best way to ride is through necessity,” he added, trying to be comforting. He did not seem to be very good at comfort.

He snapped at a stableboy to bring a stool, which was placed under Sansa’s feet. She continued to look doubtful, but stepped up to it daintily. The stableboy moved as if to support her by the waist as she readied herself to climb into the saddle, but another snap from Jaime sent him aside. He stepped forward himself, before he had thought it through, before he remembered that he only had the one useful hand, but it was too late to turn back now. He wrapped his good hand around her waist, feeling her stiffen beneath his touch, and urged her gently upwards. Placing one foot into the stirrup before her, Sansa vaulted into the saddle gracefully, and he marveled at how slight she was. As if he might push her too hard and she would float away entirely. The stableboy was now helping the bedmaid onto her mount, and she hissed in displeasure.

“You look born to the saddle already, my lady,” Jaime said approvingly, and Sansa looked down at him and slightly inclined her head in thanks. “My lord is too kind,” she murmured, settling in and spreading her slashed skirts about her. She made a pretty picture up there, slim and erect, the brisk early-morning air bringing a hint of color to her pale cheeks.

Once she had woken from her poison-cursed sleep, on the same night that Cersei had come to his bedchamber, he had thrown himself headlong into preparations for departing King’s Landing. Margaery and Brienne stayed with Sansa, the little queen sometimes bringing one or two of her many cousins to entertain the girl with gentle games and mild court gossip. Urged by Tywin, who was eager to see his son take his seat at Casterly Rock and preserve the claim to the North by preserving Sansa’s life - it was clear that King’s Landing was ever more dangerous to the girl - Jaime made arrangements for packing their clothes and possessions, set the kitchens to preparing food for their journey, and sent Bronn ahead with instructions to ready the castle for their arrival. He was certain that he had forgotten a thing or many, as he was a knight trained for the Kingsguard and had never had to concern himself with the particulars of travel or, indeed, running a household before. He suspected, he thought more than once unpleasantly, that both he and his child bride would have much to learn.

He leapt into his own saddle, somewhat less gracefully than he had when he had both of his hands, but at the very least he’d done it without help. Once everyone was finally settled - the girl, the bedmaids, the wench, Podrick Payne, the two dozen guards and the half-dozen pack horses - he took the lead, Sansa’s horse falling into step behind him as the convoy rode out of the courtyard of the Red Keep and into the winding streets of King’s Landing. Jaime knew that Cersei had been watching them mount and depart from one of the high towers; he steeled himself and did not look back.

As they wound their way through the cobblestoned streets of King’s Landing, Sansa fought to sort through the emotions boiling up in her chest. She wanted to scream, laugh, and cry, all at once, until she was mad with it, the rush of it all. She recalled all too well the excitement she had felt when riding into King’s Landing for the first time, and it ate at her heart with bitterness. She was sorry to leave Margaery, although she worried less about the older girl now that Joffrey was dead - it had been agreed that she would marry Tommen instead, who was sweet and kind and nothing like his sadistic brother. Margaery had promised to come and see them at Casterly Rock someday - “A King and Queen must visit their lands and vassals, after all”, she had said with a smile - but Sansa would still miss her bright presence. She worried, too, about Tyrion, her first lord husband, still locked away in the dungeons, but there was nothing she could do for him now. Shae, her dark-eyed bedmaid, seemed equally distraught and relieved about leaving, and Sansa was selfishly glad that she was not alone in her turmoil. For all of her sadness, she was glad to leave the keep and the city, the site and source of so much pain and anguish for her and her family. No longer would she have to look upon the ramparts where her father’s head had hung alongside the heads of her septa and her household men; no longer would she have to curtsy to Cersei before the older woman commanded a guard to beat her bloody; no longer would she have to endure whispers and titters and all of the humiliation of the court. She was finally away from it all.

But leaving came with its own set of challenges. Although she had been taught well by her lady mother and her septa, Sansa still felt unprepared to run a household, and Casterly Rock loomed large in her mind, crimson with lions and unyielding. Surely the Lannister seat would not welcome a little wolf maid. She did have Shae with her, and Brella whom Tyrion had hired, and Brienne of Tarth… the woman had refused to be left behind at King’s Landing. When Sansa was recovering, bed-bound and weak, Brienne had guarded her door, trading off sometimes with the Knight of Flowers and Garlan while Margaery kept watch at her bedside. And once Sansa was nearly well enough to leave, Brienne had come to her, insisting that she accompany them to Casterly Rock. She had made a promise to the Lady Catelyn Stark, she’d said, and at her mother’s name tears welled in Sansa’s eyes. She had lifted her chin high to keep them from spilling, and said “If my lord husband will allow it, I would be honored to have you at our side, Lady Brienne”. That was the last of it, and now Brienne rode just behind her, keeping careful watch on the narrow streets.

Still, there was still the matter of her lord husband…

He had been at her bedside the morning after she’d woken from her long sleep and, as she opened her eyes, he reached for her hand, then seemed to think better of it. “I am glad to see you awake, my lady,” he’d said instead. She smiled weakly.

“I am glad to be awake, my lord,” she’d replied, and hoped that he did not want to converse further. Her head was clouded and her mouth was dry. She wanted water, but did not want to ask him for it, and hoped that he’d call a servant to tend to her needs. He did not - he just sat there, looking at her, seemingly at a loss for what to say next.

“We will find the person responsible,” he said finally, lamely. “Those who hurt you will be brought to justice."

“I trust in your justice, my lord,” she’d responded. They both knew he was lying.

Since then, as she recovered, he had stayed away. Their marriage remained unconsummated, and Sansa was glad of it. Despite all odds, she still harbored some small, secret hope that as long as she remained a maiden, this marriage, too, could be dissolved and she could be a Stark again… she knew it could never happen, of course, but in her heart of hearts she still hoped, and was relieved for more reasons than only that. She recalled all too vividly her wedding night with Tyrion, his twisted body and how it had frightened and repulsed her, the bitterness in his eyes as he left her. Somehow she did not think it would be better with Jaime, although he did not suffer from the dwarf’s physical afflictions.

She watched him now as they rode out of the city. His locks shorn, his frame thinned by his ordeals, he looked less like the golden knight of her dreams, but his shoulders were still broad and he still rode with a straight back and with surety. She wondered momentarily what it would be like, to have those broad shoulders above her, then blushed and looked away. There was no reason to believe that it would be pleasant, everyone said so, and he was a Lannister. No good came to wolves who lay with lions.

Still, her heart felt lighter and lighter as they rode away from the Red Keep, and when they crossed the gates of the city she suddenly felt like she could breathe again, she felt light, like she could take flight. She turned back to look at Shae and flashed her a smile, but the older girl only grimaced. It seemed that her bedmaid hated riding, although Sansa was enjoying it. She had not spoken true to Jaime, although she suspected that he would discover her slight dishonesty after not too long - she was indeed a strong rider, and a capable falconer, among other things. She had not been riding since she had gone hawking with Margaery, before her own wedding, and now the horse’s movements underneath her were smooth, its muscles strong and powerful, carrying her ever forward.

They rode out of the city and onto the great road that split into three some miles out of the city. The Roseroad, south to Highgarden and Oldtown beyond it; the Goldroad, west through the Westerlands to Casterly Rock; and the great Kingsroad, wending ever north. Her horse followed Jaime’s dutifully as they followed a fork in the road, but to Sansa’s great surprise, they did not turn west.

“M-my lord,” she called out softly, and he reined in his horse to walk beside her, looking at her questioningly. “We are not taking the Goldroad…"

He smirked. “We are not, my lady."

Her heart hammered in her chest, threatening to burst out, and she dared not think of it, dared not hope… “We are on the Kingsroad, my lord."

“We are, my lady."

He probably needs to stop at the Trident, maybe, for the war, or Harrenhall… oh, it would be nice to see Riverrun… it is but a detour, surely he has business for Lord Tywin or the Crown and he did not tell me, why would he, I am only a silly little girl… still her heart raced and she held her breath, stilled herself.

“Casterly Rock is on the Goldroad,” she said dumbly. Jaime chuckled.

“We are not going to Casterly Rock, my lady,” he said finally. “We are going to Winterfell."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if this chapter feels rushed... I wanted to give Sansa's and Jaime's relationships their due, but I also wanted to get them out of King's Landing so I could start exploring their relationship without the distractions and treacheries of court. It's possible that it's not the last we've seen of Cersei, Tywin, Margaery and company, but the focus for the near future will be on our merry band of riders, plus some potential cameos down the road!


	4. Chapter 4

 “T-to Winterfell?” 

Sansa’s vision swam, her heart danced, and she thought she might faint from the saddle.  _Winterfell, Winterfell, Winterfell,_  her entire being sang, and she swayed slightly with the joy that threatened to consume her. _Home. Home!_

She fought to steel herself. Winterfell was surely not the same as she had left it, after all these years of war; she would have to be cautious. And her seat was at Casterly Rock, alongside her Lannister husband - doubtless they would depart for the Westerlands before too long in the North. Still, the very thought of seeing her winter home again gave her reason to draw breath. 

“Yes, my lady,” Jaime said, chuckling again at her childish excitement. A bright pink flush had colored Sansa’s cheeks, and a bright light danced in her blue eyes. She looked her age now as they rode in the open air, unable to contain her smile, all worries gone for the moment. She looked as she should look, not as that bloodied, cowed ghost of a girl he’d found at King’s Landing. 

“Why?” she asked, turning those bright eyes on him. A small frown now crossed her face, her russet brows coming together. “I-I thought your father had ordered you to Casterly Rock, to take your seat as its Lord…"

Jaime shrugged. In truth, the decision to go to Winterfell instead of Casterly Rock was not made to please his bride, but to anger his father. Tywin Lannister had thought his son was well in hand and obedient now, that he should marry whomever the Lion of the Rock wanted, ride wherever he wanted, bed whomever he wanted. Well, Jaime didn’t want the Rock. He didn’t much want Winterfell, either, but he did want the image of his father’s face once he learned of his son and his little wolf wife on their merry way North. 

“Casterly Rock can wait,” he said. “But Sansa-“ she turned her bright eyes to him again, and his heart, inexplicably, sank a little, “I must tell you to temper your excitement. Winterfell will not be as you remembered it. You may have heard that it was sacked and burned by the Ironmen.” Her eyes had lost their sparkle now, and she nodded somberly, and he felt an odd pang in that moment. “I have sent riders ahead to scout and secure the castle, and to begin recruiting men to repair the keep, but there is no telling what shape we will find it in. I heard it was burned quite badly."

_Burned!_  Sansa’s heart sank as quickly as it had soared, but not all of her hope was lost. _Just to be within those walls once again, to see the towers and the godswood, feel the warmth from the pools…_ she even missed the crypts below the keep. She would like to look upon Lady Lyanna’s face once more, to see if she couldn’t see Arya’s within it. She steeled herself. She was a Stark, and the Starks endured, as would their Northern home. 

“If winter’s town is deserted,” she said, her voice breaking just a little on the words, “how shall we find the men to help us rebuild?"

_Us?_  Jaime quirked an eyebrow at that, but supposed that Winterfell was his problem now just as it was Sansa’s. “You shall have to call your bannermen, I suppose,” he said, and for the first time the realization of what he had done fully dawned on him. Many Northern houses were smashed, laid low in the war, but many still stood strong and did not look kindly upon Lannisters. He did not relish the welcome they would show to a Lannister who rode to the claim of Lordship of Winterfell on the coattails of Eddard Stark’s daughter. 

“My father’s bannermen,” Sansa corrected him, and blushed. He fixed her with a steady look, doubting that the girl was truly up to the task.

“No, Sansa, Yours."

And the realization dawned upon Sansa as well, what _heir of Winterfell_  truly meant. _The North would never bow to the Lannisters, not truly,_  she thought. She would have to be the one to unite them, to lead them, to convince them to bend the knee to the South and King Tommen. Her lady mother and Septa Mordane had not prepared her for that. And was this not what Robb had fought for, had _died_  for - the North’s freedom, its steadfast refusal to bend the knee to the Lannisters who had murdered their father? How would she convince Winterfell’s remaining bannermen to lay down their arms, especially with a Lannister husband at her side? She was but a girl...

_That king is dead,_  she reminded herself sternly. _Joffrey, who murdered Ned Stark, is dead. Robb is dead, and Mother. Hasn’t the North lost enough?_ She wanted peace, she did, she was mighty sick of war and all its horrors. She thought that Jaime might feel the same. If she was sweet to him, treated him with respect and courtesy, mayhap he could be convinced to show mercy to the Northernmen so no one else would have to die. She would convince him, she had to, and the lesser Houses of the North as well. Her bannermen, now, and his. 

She glanced back at Jaime, and found to her surprise that he was still watching her. A flush crept up her neck, coloring her cheeks, and she nodded. She would do this, _for the North_. 

**

He watched Sansa in the inn’s tavern, face shadowed but hair light bright by the candlelight, as she and her bedmaid spoke in hushed tones over their cups of wine. She was shy, his lady wife, and skittish with him. Was he really such a thing to be feared? Used to be, maidens would sigh at the sight of him and he could have had his pick of warm arms to wrap about him, warm thighs to open for him, warm… but he had only ever wanted the warmth of one. Still, it should not have been so difficult to cross the threshold of her room at night, to send her bedmaid away, and to _do his duty_  as his father had said. Tywin had commanded him to put a son in the girl’s belly, to seal the union and secure the North, but then he could put her aside, for years if he wanted to, or for ever… but he found that he could not do it. _Think of Cersei,_  his mind whispered, but he could not do that either. His sweet sister was with him every step along the Kingsroad, she hounded him, every golden-haired woman had her face, sometimes at night he could smell her scent, and he did not want her in his marriage bed. She gave him no peace even as he put leagues between them, and he did not think that calling her to mind would help him _do his duty_  with Sansa Stark. 

They had been on the road for a number of days at this point, riding at a brisk pace and stopping only to eat and sleep. Close to King’s Landing, the Crownlands were peaceful enough, and inns plentiful. They had managed to find accommodations each day before sunset, and for that Jaime was thankful. He and Pod had taken a room, and Sansa shared another with her bedmaids; Brienne always took her own room, although it was anyone’s guess whether she slept at all - she was always the last to bed, after ensuring that Sansa was secure, and the first in the stable yard in the mornings, spinning around in the dust, her sword catching the glint of the morning sun. Sometimes Pod trained with her, and she was patient with him; for all of his stuttering and staring at the ground, which drove Jaime mad with impatience, the lad was good on his feet. Sometimes Jaime would have liked to train with them as well, but he could not bring himself to do it. Bronn was one thing, but the wench and the squire were far from the company he would have preferred. 

Each night, they supped in taverns on plain fare, hard bread and oatcakes, tough mutton, thin vegetable broths, bitter ale and sour wine. Brienne, Pod, and Sansa’s elder bedmaid ate without complaint, although the other bedmaid - _Shae? Was that her name? -_ pulled faces sometimes, her dark eyes flashing with displeasure. Sansa picked at her food, although she relished fruit, if they could get it, and hard cheeses. Jaime did not mind what he put in his mouth, used as he was to soldier’s rations. He did not miss the capitol’s rich dishes at all. 

Jaime’s contemplation of Sansa was interrupted by Brienne’s tall form, moving abruptly into his line of sight. He sighed. 

“Do you mind? My lady wife is a great sight prettier than you are, and I would prefer to continue watching her."

Brienne did not acknowledge the slight, simply lowering herself onto the rough hewn bench next to him. Her hand, as always, was on the pommel of her sword, and she kept an ever-watchful eye on Sansa as well. The bedmaid snorted with laughter, and Sansa giggled as well, one delicate hand covering her mouth. Jaime wondered idly what it was they were discussing. 

“Does your lady wife know?” Brienne murmured, close to Jaime’s ear. He blinked, tearing his gaze away from the girls to focus on the woman - if she could be called that - in front of him. 

“Know what, exactly?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous. The wench’s words felt too much a threat and he did not appreciate being threatened. 

“What I do. About your sister, and her brother-"

_Oh, yes._  It had slipped his mind that Brienne knew his secrets, knew about him and Cersei, and the Stark boy's… unfortunate fall. He hoped that she would not be stupid enough to try and wield that knowledge over him; Jaime Lannister handled blackmail even less well than he handled threats. He reached out, wrapping his good hand around Brienne’s forearm under the table, where no one could see. She started at the touch, and tried to jerk her arm away, but he held tight. “Release me!” she hissed, and he narrowed his eyes. 

“My lady wife knows just as much as she needs to know,” he said calmly, although he could feel his jaw tightening. “She is so young, and still so weak from her - _illness_ \- and the journey is a treacherous one. I would not concern her with anything else."

“You would have your marriage be based on lies?” 

_The stupid cow._  Brienne stared at him, no doubt full of righteous anger. Didn’t she know that, by simply being married to him, Sansa was already in danger; that if she were to know the truth, she was unlikely to see her next nameday? _The girl has already been poisoned on her wedding day, for Sevens’ sake._

“I am trying to _protect_  her,” he said quietly, but there was urgency in his voice. “The less she knows of what I’ve done, the better. She is an innocent, and you know as well as I how innocents suffer in wartime." 

Brienne yanked her arm out of his grip; he could tell she remained unconvinced. “She deserved better than you,” she whispered before sliding down the bench to rest at the opposite end of the table from him. _Kingslayer_ hung unspoken in the air between them. _Oathbreaker,_  Jaime thought. _I know._

_**_

They were a day past Harrenhal (Jaime’s face was hard that day, his eyes focused fast on the road ahead, and even Brienne was more taciturn than usual) and within a day’s ride from the inn at the crossroads when Jaime received the first raven from Bronn. They were seated in another spare inn, dining on oatcakes and salt cod (both Sansa and Shae wrinkled their noses, but Sansa smiled when Pod fetched them dried apples from the horses’ packs) when the innkeeper, long face gaunt and drawn, brought the letter. 

“For you, I imagine, m’lord,” he said curtly. His eyes were nervous and he was tense; Jaime did not blame him, considering what had been happening at Harrenhal lately, only a day’s ride away. He suspected the man had seen more than his fair share of horrors, from the Brave Companions and the Mountain’s men alike. He raised his eyebrows, and the innkeeper just held out the letter. “M’lord Lannister,” he said, and Jaime’s eyes flickered from the lions on the shields of the guards to the letter, which he took. _Of course._  His name was scrawled on the letter. There was no seal. He unfolded it, scanned the scarce words within quickly, then his gaze found Brienne. It took a few moments of staring intently at her before she felt his gaze and turned slowly, fingers wrapping around the pommel of her sword. Jaime motioned her over. 

“What is it?” she asked in a low tone once she was seated next to him; her face was turned away from him as she watched Sansa, Shae and Pod finish their meager meals. It did not befit Sansa to sup with the servants, Jaime thought absently, but he supposed that their company suited her better than his. Just then, Sansa rose from the bench, crossing the room to the back door; Pod followed at a respectful distance, and waited by the door for her, hand hovering at his sword belt. Brienne’s gaze followed, and she tensed, ready to leap at any sign of trouble. Jaime snapped his fingers impatiently; he needed her attention. 

“A letter from my man Bronn,” he said quietly. “I sent him and a handful of guards to ride ahead to Winterfell, to scout the way and ready the castle. He has reached Moat Cailin, and tells me that the Ironmen hold the ruins." 

Brienne’s gaze flew to Jaime, and her broad brow furrowed. “The Ironmen do not bow to the North or the Lannisters,” she murmured. “And we cannot reach Winterfell without passing by Moat Cailin. They will not let us through."

“Yes, very good,” said Jaime acidly. “I am glad we both understand the state of things. They tell me that there is only a token force holding the stronghold, but it still outnumbers our host. Mayhap if I was still in possession of both hands, it would have been a fair fight.” His tone had taken a turn for the bitter. 

“If we make camp in the Neck, mayhap we can scout other means of passing,” Brienne mused, although she did not sound sure. “Or lure out the Ironmen and pick them off in smaller numbers until we can take the castle…"

Jaime shook his head. “The causeway of the Kingsroad is the only safe means of passage through the Neck,” he said, “and we’ll be seen from Moat Cailin from miles away. They’ll have scouts, surely-"

“Howland Reed,” came a soft voice from behind them. Jaime and Brienne spun to find Sansa lowering herself onto the bench of the neighboring table, her hands folded delicately in her lap. Jaime stared at her as she went on, “Lord of House Reed of Greywater Watch."

“Sansa, what-"

“Begging your pardon, my lord, I overheard you speaking. I did not mean to eavesdrop, truly-“ her pale face flushed slightly, “-but I heard you say that Ironmen were in the Neck and at Moat Cailin."

He exchanged a glance with Brienne, and shrugged. “That is so, my lady. What has this Lord Reed to do with it?"

“Howland Reed rules over the crannogmen of the Neck,” Sansa explained. “The crannogmen know safe ways through the Neck, and I’ve heard my father and his men say that they can make things - ah - _difficult_ for those seeking passage. If we were to send word to Lord Reed of our arrival, he could ensure us safe passage through the Neck, out of sight of Moat Cailin."

Her eyes were bright and she looked - proud, almost, but Jaime was not so sure. Eyes narrowed, he exchanged a glance with Brienne. The woman was frowning, clearly weighing their options. 

“We could send word to your father,” she suggested. “If the Ironmen’s force is small, surely Lord Tywin could spare enough men to defeat them-" 

“No,” Jaime said quickly, shooting Brienne a dirty look. Did the wench not _realize_  that their excursion North wasn’t exactly validated by the elder Lannister? But he wasn’t about to explain it now - not in front of Sansa. “I will not bother my father with this.” He turned to Sansa, who sat very still, hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles turned white. “Howland Reed, you say? Why should he help us?"

Sansa hesitated, then drew herself up, as if her spine became steel. In the tavern’s dim light, the delicate bones of her face cast deep shadows on that pale skin; her russet hair glowed. “House Reed has always been most loyal to House Stark. The crannogmen shall see us through the Neck safely,” she said softly, and there was steel in her voice as well. “Tell him that Eddard Stark’s daughter rides North to her ancestral home.”

Jaime eyed her approvingly. Mayhap there was something to his little winter wife after all. There was something regal in her bearing as she said the words, the way she held her head, the firm line of her mouth, that he would not have guessed at as he recalled, briefly, the frightened girl at King’s Landing. “You know your House’s bannermen,” he pointed out, taking care to keep his tone casual. 

Sansa’s bright eyes found his. “As you know yours, my lord."

 “I am my father’s heir,” he pointed out. Sansa inclined her head in acknowledgement. 

“All of my siblings learned the history of our House and our bannermen,” she said, and her mouth quirked in a small smile. “It is cold in the North, my lord, and the evenings are long. We spent a great deal of time indoors, being taught a great deal of things.” 

_No doubt._  Jaime smirked, then sobered. “And you believe this Lord Reed will get us past Moat Cailin unseen?"

“I am sure of it, my lord."

A long pause, as Jaime searched Sansa’s face; she was still, and although a flush crept up her chest and crossed her cheeks, she held his gaze. Finally, he nodded, and snapped at Pod for parchment and quill. _Time to see what you can do, little wolf maid._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This one's kind of a haul, and covers quite a bit of set-up for the plot. As I'm trying to stay more or less canon-compliant, I'm coming up on questions that have to be answered, um, creatively. I didn't set out to write an AU epic, buuut it sure seems to be heading that way. 
> 
> I know that Bronn can't read or write in canon, but let's pretend that it was one of the men-at-arms with him who wrote the letter, or that Tyrion had been teaching him his letters behind the scenes. 
> 
> The next few chapters will likely be slow to update - I'm going out of town for a bit and won't be writing much. Don't worry, though, the fic won't be abandoned! As always, feedback is greatly appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: this chapter's a bit rough on our poor Sansa, but there's also some nice Sansa/Jaime moments that hopefully make up for it!

Sansa’s gambit paid off. She hadn’t been truly sure that it would work, had little confidence in Jaime’s men finding Howland Reed and the crannogmen - what guarantee was there, after all, that they hadn’t been killed in or fled from the war? But when she had heard that the Ironmen held Moat Cailin, her heart had plummeted, and she had thought that they may have to turn back, ride for King’s Landing, and she couldn’t face going back. _Not yet. Not ever._  She had racked her brain for ideas on passing safely through the Neck, and taken a wild, desperate chance. 

It worked. She felt increasingly more anxious each day as they neared Moat Cailin, letting Shae chatter away, even allowing the older girl to complain about things far beyond her station; she hadn’t the heart to reprimand her. She watched Jaime out of the corner of her eye as he rode, never showing the slightest sign of discomfort, occasionally exchanging words with Brienne, but mostly quiet and watchful.

It was Jaime who halted their company as he spotted a host of figures on the causeway ahead. Several of them were mounted, but more were afoot, and they seemed to be waiting as they blocked the road. Brienne, still on horseback, drew her sword; Shae gasped in fear and clumsily maneuvered her mount behind Pod’s; Jaime only squared his shoulders, his mouth a tight line, before urging his horse forward. Sansa heard the ring of steel behind her and knew that their guards had drawn their weapons as well. 

She urged her horse to a slow walk, moving towards the figures while keeping her distance behind Jaime. She could hear another horse coming up behind her; “My lady,” Brienne called out, soft and low, but Sansa ignored her. From the distance, she could not tell whether the people on the road were crannogmen or Ironmen, but in case they were Northmen she thought that she should let herself be seen. 

“Who goes there?” came the call from the party gathered on the causeway. Jaime kept his horse to a measured walk, and Sansa followed. 

“Who wants to know?” he called back, insolent. 

“We hold this road and Moat Cailin for the North.” 

Sansa gasped, then urged her horse forward. _Reckless_ , she thought as she trotted past Jaime; “Sansa!” he hissed, but she was past him now, squinting ahead as the group on the causeway came into view. An older man and woman on horseback, along with a couple of girls who looked to be Sansa’s age, all in boiled leather and road-dusty furs, backed by a group of short men and women wielding lances and tridents. Sansa laughed, giddy with relief.

She glanced back at Jaime to find him wearing  - well, a _displeased_  expression would have been putting it mildly. “It’s the crannogmen,” she said, grinning despite herself, despite his infuriated face. “We are safe, my lord.” He caught up to her, sparing her a fuming glance before turning his eyes on their greeters.  

“The Lord an Lady of Winterfell make their way North to their seat.” 

There was a silence, then a snort from one of the mounted group. “I don’t remember the Lords of Winterfell being so _blonde,_ ” the woman called out. 

Sansa lowered her hood, letting her red braids spill over her shoulders. _I am Sansa Stark_ , she wanted to say, but she knew it wasn’t true anymore, although she couldn’t say that she was _Sansa Lannister_ , either. “I am the daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark of Winterfell,” she called back, and her voice wavered. “Pray tell, who do we owe our safe passage to?" 

A pause, then the people on horseback dismounted. The older couple exchanged glances, then both sank down to one knee. Sansa stole another look at Jaime - he now looked as if he’d tasted something foul - before dismounting as well. She was close enough to see that they were both grey-haired and sturdy of build, perhaps a dozen years older than her parents had been. She walked towards them; behind her, she heard Jaime’s feet hit the ground, and Brienne’s, but she paid them no mind and kept walking, raising her palms in greeting. _They remember me. They must._

She took another few steps before her forearms were clasped in greeting, the man bowing before her. Introductions were made; he was Galbart Glover and she Maege Mormont, both heads of their Houses. The two girls were Lyra and Jorelle, Maege’s daughters; they smiled at Sansa, but eyed Jaime and the rest of their company warily. The host of crannogmen shifted uneasily, tightening their grips on their weapons. Sansa inclined her head towards them in greeting. 

Galbart and Maege made quick work of an explanation for their greeting Sansa and Jaime on the causeway. In the fortnight since they had received Bronn’s letter and penned a response, he had succeeded in finding the crannogmen and telling them of the Lord and Lady of Winterfell’s impending arrival. Instead of taking Bronn to Howland Reed, they had sent him and his companions on their way to Winterfell by means of secret paths through the Neck, assuring him that Moat Cailin would be safe by the time his lord and lady made their way up there. And indeed it was. Maege smirked as she recounted the story of the crannogmen picking off the Ironmen scouts, hunters, and lookouts one by one, two by two, until their host had dwindled so far that the remaining garrison had fled, abandoning the ruins.  

Sansa thanked them profusely, Jaime echoing her sentiments coolly, and wondered aloud what Galbart, Maege, and her daughters had been doing in the Neck to begin with. The older couple had exchanged a look and fallen silent. Sansa looked between them. “Looking for Howland Reed,” Galbart had said finally, and it was clear that he would say no more. Both he and Maege glanced often between Sansa and Jaime, clearly wondering, but neither made a move to ask. 

The host of crannogmen accompanied them as far North as the ruins of Moat Cailin, then melted away into the shadows of the swamps. Sansa had only enough time to slip one of them a note before they disappeared as if they’d never been there, small shadows dissipating in the night. They made camp in the ruins that evening, the guards patrolling the area and striking the sleep tents while Brella combed Sansa’s hair and Pod dug through the horses’ packs for food and distributed it among the company. Sansa had barely finished her spare meal before Jaime grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. 

“Pardon us, but my lady wife and I have something to discuss,” he said acidly before yanking her into the trees, out of the warmth of the fire. Sansa stiffened, icy fear flooding her bones. Away from the firelight, she shivered, feeling Jaime’s fingers on her upper arm as he pulled her forward. In the dark, her feet found a tree root and she tripped, her shoulder hitting the trunk of a tree; she steadied herself against it, closing her eyes. The pain and terror rushed back at her, Joffrey and Ilyn Payne, cold mail against her skin, the cuts and the bruises, the wind in the trees overhead sounded like the whispers of the court, the giggles and gasps as she was thrown to her knees, again and again-

“What in the Seven Hells were you _thinking_ , riding out like that?"

His words, spat at her with the fury of fire, weren’t what she expected. “I wanted-“ she whispered weakly, but he cut her off. 

“I don’t care what you _wanted_ , you could have been killed, kidnapped, or else. That was mighty stupid, Sansa!"

“My lord is too kind to be so concerned,” she murmured, eyes still closed. She reached around the trunk of the tree, leaning on it as her world dipped. 

“I am not _kind,_ ” Jaime growled. His voice was closer now, and she wrenched open her eyes to find him only inches before her, looking down at her with barely contained anger. “But I don’t want you _dead._ "

_It’s your claim they want._  “They said they held the road for the North,” she said, her voice small. She opened her eyes fully to meet his furious gaze, and although she was afraid, she held his eyes. _I am a Stark. I can be brave._  “If they were loyal, as they are, to them Eddard Stark’s children are the North. I wanted them to - to know me.” She took a deep breath, releasing her grip on the tree to reach up and lay one trembling hand lightly on his chest. “I am sorry for frightening my lord, truly.” 

He stilled, looking at her. There was something in his eyes she could not name. “I am not frightened,” he said. He reached up to take her hand away from his chest, holding it for a second before letting it drop to her side. “Don’t do it again, Sansa.” 

“No, my lord,” she murmured, dropping her gaze. Her hand was warm where he had touched her; she could still feel the soft leather of his jerkin on her fingertips. The bark of the tree was rough on her back, it pulled at her loose hair, scratched her neck. She took a step away from the tree and stumbled. Jaime reached out to steady her, his hand light in the small of her back. It was warm there too. Despite her ebbing fear, she was comforted by the gesture. None of this helped her make up her mind about her lord husband at all.  

Back in the circle of the firelight, she found their small company staring at her intently. Brienne and Maege’s hands were at their sword belts, Lyra and Jorelle looked intense, and Pod and Shae anxious. She thought that if she’d screamed, the older women would have rushed into the woods with naked steel; the thought comforted her, made her feel safer than she’d felt in years. _They will protect me._  Relief flooded through her, and she smiled at them in reassurance. 

“My lord husband worries for my safety,” she said softly. Jaime only huffed, snapping his fingers at Pod before stomping away from the fire, in the direction of his sleep tent. He had no interest in courtesies. Sansa smiled apologetically at Galbart and Maege before gesturing for Brella and Shae to accompany her to her own tent. There had been enough excitement for one day. 

**

There had not been enough excitement, however, for their journey. They were midway between Moat Cailin and Castle Cerwyn, riding hard in anticipation of House Cerwyn’s hospitality and the possibility of sleeping in real beds once more, when an arrow thrummed through the air and found its mark in the shoulder of one of the Lannister guards. The man grunted, sliding sideways off his mount, as the rest of the horses shied and wheeled in panic, their eyes rolling. Shae screamed, her mount rearing, and Pod grabbed for the horse’s reins as more arrows flew. Sansa’s first instinct was to dig in her heels, to urge her horse forward, to flee, but there were figures on the road ahead, blocking the path of their company. Between the whir of arrows, the panicked neigh of horses, the ring of steel as the guards drew their swords, and Shae’s screams, Sansa was overwhelmed, dizzied, her vision clouding. She glanced around frantically as Brienne and Maege closed in on her, both with swords at the ready. As men burst out of the bushes on both sides of the road, she spotted Jaime as he leaned sideways off his mount, close-cropped golden hair glinting in the afternoon light as he swung left-handed at a man in tattered leathers who ran towards them, brandishing a pick-axe. Jaime’s sword caught him in the side, and bright blood flew. Sansa looked away as bile rose in her throat. 

She found that she’d been herded to the middle of the group, along with Shae, Brella, and the Mormont girls, as the fighters around them battled their attackers. Maege was just as competent with a sword as Brienne, hacking and slashing at the threadbare men, wielding odd weaponry, and with the look of starvation about them, who rushed at them. Sansa leaned low, wrapping her arms around her horse’s neck, squeezing her eyes shut and praying to the Seven, to the old gods, to _anyone_ , when she felt a yank on her hair. In the melee, her hood had slipped off, and her braids had fallen loose - now, someone had their hand around them and was pulling, pulling hard enough that she thought her head might come off her shoulders, pulling her off of her horse. She hit the ground hard, catching only a glimpse of her attacker - the frame of a powerful man gone to seed from desperation, an ugly scar across his neck, several dark spots where his teeth should be - before he yanked again, dragging her along by her hair, and she, too, screamed. All around her were men’s feet and horses’ hooves and the clash of swords and the pain in her scalp was unbearable, the hard ground raking at her through her riding coat and cloak, the terror threatening to swallow her whole as she screamed and screamed and _screamed-_  

And just as suddenly as she had fallen, the pain lessened and the hard ground fell away, replaced by strong arms gathering her close, cradling her. She smelled blood and leather and sweat, and beat her fists against the chest of the man who held her, sobbing hysterically, kicking her feet although they found no mark.  

“Sansa!” The voice was familiar, she’d heard it say her name before; her sobs lessened somewhat and her legs stilled. “ _Sansa,”_  he said again, softer, and she gulped for air, daring to open her eyes. It was Jaime that held her, blood spattered along his cheekbone, his eyes still wild with battlelust as they searched her face. Her own eyes were just as wild as they took him in, _safe safe I am safe_ her heart raced as her fingers curled around the collar of his jerkin, seeking comfort. She felt, as if through a haze, his golden hand against her back, supporting her; his good hand moved across her back, her shoulder, and up her neck as he cupped her cheek. His palm was rough against the soft skin of her face, she could feel the calluses there from long years of weapons training, and such tiny measures stilled her pounding heart.  

“Sansa,” he breathed. “Becalm, little wolf, you’re safe.” And in that moment, she did feel safe as she buried her face in his chest, gasping for air, tears clouding her vision and staining her cheeks. She shouldn’t have been soothed by the embrace of a man whose family was responsible for such horrors done to her own, she knew it through a fog, but he had rescued her,  _like the Hound_ , she thought, and there was a comfort to his touch. His hand moved from her face to her hair, his fingers cradling the nape of her neck as he held her close. She could feel the heat of him against her fingers, wrapped under the collar of his jerkin against his skin, the rise of his chest with his quickened breath. The sounds of fighting died down around them, the song of steel replaced by groans of the wounded and curses from the guards. Soon she would have to let go of him, to open her eyes and to rise, to take in the carnage all around her, the wounded and the dead, to reassure their companions that she was well - but not yet. So Sansa held on to her husband, a man all but a stranger to her, and drew strength from his embrace as he murmured nonsense against her tangled hair. 

“I swore to protect you,” he whispered against her ear, reminding himself of his oath. In truth, in the moment he hadn’t needed reminding, and that surprised him most of all. When he’d heard her scream, his body snapped to action, his mind filled with one goal - _protect her._  When he’d spotted the one man who had somehow broken through the circle guarding the girls, dragging Sansa by the hair, he was consumed with rage and an uncontrollable urge to hack him into pieces. Much to his chagrin, Brienne got to the man first, striking him down, but it left him free to reach for his little wife as she howled and sobbed and tried to fight him off. In that moment, taking her into his arms felt as natural as anything, and he hadn’t thought about his honor at all, only her safety.  

After a time, Sansa’s sobs calmed and her body stilled its shaking. Jaime held her close still, arms wrapped about her, his lips on her hair, her legs flung over his. She smelled like saddle leather and road dust and a sharp, sweet hint of citrus that mingled with cold winter air. Pulling away from him, she opened her eyes, her pretty face red-splotched and tear-stained, her eyes swollen, a scratch near her temple. Her gaze found the blood on his face before meeting his eyes; she made a motion to wipe at the blood, but her hands shook, and her thumb just grazed his cheek. Her lips moved soundlessly, and she drew a deep, shuddering breath. Jaime was filled with a feeling he couldn’t name, a strong urge to protect mixed with a stirring low in his belly, a desire to know what her parted lips tasted like. A desire that was entirely inappropriate for the situation. Silently, he cursed himself as he loosened his grip on Sansa, brushing his thumb over her lips before tucking back some of her bright hair. _It’s the battlelust upon you,_  he told himself as he pulled away gently. He hadn’t ever heeded it before, had never truly wanted to, but now the reason for that was far from his thoughts. Sansa’s tearful blue eyes were all that he could see, even as she slid from his arms, even as Brienne and Brella helped her to her feet and checked her for injuries, even as Pod helped him up and led him back to his horse, and he cursed himself again. He couldn’t wait to be to Castle Cerwyn, and Winterfell after; these long days on the road were clouding his mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if you're sick of them being on the road by this point - I'm getting there myself! I didn't want to rush the travel, though, and it will be coming to an end very soon, I promise!


	6. Chapter 6

Their company was coming up on Castle Cerwyn when the snow began to fall. There had already been snow on the ground for some time, as they rode out of the Barrowlands and into the North proper, but it was old and dirty, pockmarked with tracks and melt. As they crossed the south-eastern edge of the wolfswood, the air had turned crisp, with a biting freshness that nipped at their noses and chilled their throats. Then the flakes began to fall. Tiny and light, they drifted down to rest on the riders’ hair and cloaks, turned to dew in the horses’ manes, and coated the ground in a sheer blanket of white.

Jaime shivered, his mouth set in a displeased line, but Sansa turned her face up to the grey-white sky. She hadn’t seen snow since leaving Winterfell, and now that journey felt a lifetime ago, that Sansa a different girl. Only weeks ago she had been warm in King’s Landing, and now here she was in the North, bundled in wool and leather, with the scent of home in the air. She closed her eyes, the snowflakes landing like tiny ice-cold kisses on her skin, and inhaled deeply. _Home home home_ , her heart beat with every step of her horse’s hooves.

“I’ve never seen snow before,” she heard Shae announce behind her, and Pod respond with something murmured, a rustle of cloth. The Mormont girls were unbothered, Lyra throwing up her hood over her dark hair. The older riders gave no reaction at all. After a quick glance at her companions to make sure no one was watching, Sansa stuck out her tongue, tasting winter, tasting memories, tasting the North.

The snowfall thickened as Castle Cerwyn came into view, the black battle-axe on cloth-of-silver waving from its ramparts. As they neared, the portcullis rose and a small party rode out to greet them. Sansa vaguely recognized the plump, plain woman in heavy furs at the front as Jonelle Cerwyn, flanked by a maester, a man who looked to be Cerwyn’s castellan, and several men-at-arms.

Polite, but terse, greetings were exchanged, and Lady Cerwyn invited the company inside for supper. Jaime seemed to hesitate, but accepted after a glance at Sansa, and they were ushered within the walls of Castle Cerwyn, their horses led to the stables for fresh water and oats, and their party guided into the hall.

Sansa had hazy memories of Castle Cerwyn from her few visits there as a child; as the nearest keep to Winterfell, the Starks had called on the Cerwyns often enough, although Sansa had always found the visits dreadfully boring. Now, she was grateful to be in a familiar place. The Lannister guards had been ushered to the barracks and Shae, Brella, and Pod were whisked away by the Cerwyn servants, so it was Sansa, Jaime, Brienne, Galbart, and the Mormont women who followed Jonelle and her castellan and maester into the hall. Inside, a fire was merrily blazing and a long table was being set, candles burning. The air smelled of fresh rushes and beeswax and, even inside, the cold tinge of snow. The Cerwyn hall was far smaller than Winterfell’s, but Sansa found it comforting to be someplace plain and homey once again, in a hall of stone and timber instead of marble and gold. Once she couldn’t wait to be away from what she considered to be dark and ugly; now, it sang to her, a song of comfort and peace.

Everyone was seated and wine had been poured before Sansa inquired politely about Lady Cerwyn’s family. Immediately, she regretted the misstep, as Jonelle’s plain face turned deathly white and her chin shook. The maester looked on with pity as the Lady took some time to compose herself, then squared her shoulders. Lord Medger had died at Harrenhal, she explained, and Cley had been slain at the battle of winter’s town. Jonelle was Lady of House Cerwyn now. Moved to pity, Sansa reached out, covering the older woman’s hand with her own, and promised Winterfell’s support. She didn’t glance at Jaime as she said it.

“What news from King’s Landing?” Jaime asked after a drawn-out pause; Sansa thought he seemed eager to change the subject. “We’ve not had ravens on the road.” There was a tension in his voice and in the set of his broad shoulders, a line between his brows. Lady Cerwyn took a deep, shuddering breath, composing herself.

“My lord may be pleased to hear that his brother, Tyrion Lannister, has won his trial against the Crown,” she said, with am anxious glance at Sansa. Sansa tried, and failed, to stifle a gasp, and clapped her hand to her mouth. Emotions roiled within her, guilt mixed with relief, joy with a bitter rush of jealousy - _why should Jaime's brother go free while Robb’s bones will never make it home to Winterfell?_ \- but she shoved the ugly thought away as Jonelle continued. “Prince Oberyn Martell slew the Mountain in combat and the gods have declared Lord Tyrion innocent. However…” she paused, darting her eyes towards Sansa before lowering them to her plate and picking up her goblet.

“Yes, go on,” Jaime snapped impatiently. “What is it?"

“It seems that upon being declared innocent and released from the Crown’s custody, Lord Tyrion has departed King’s Landing and no one knows where he has gone,” Jonelle finished, eyes still on her plate, and hastily took a long drink of wine. Sansa looked between her and Jaime, who was now frowning in earnest. She realized she had been plucking at her sleeve with her fingers in restlessness, and clasped her hands together to still them. She could still feel the weight of the hairnet in her hands, could almost hear the glittering clink of it as she cast it aside in the halls of the Red Keep, moments before the guards seized her.

“And what news of my sister?"

“The Lady Cersei was said to be - displeased - that the gods had not seen fit to deliver justice for the murder of King Joffrey,” Jonelle said slowly, avoiding Jaime’s face. “They say - they say she still searches for the traitor who dared to raise a hand against the King."

Of course. Jaime imagined that Cersei had been nothing short of apoplectic when Tyrion’s champion won the trial. She would have thought she’d had the upper hand, choosing the enormous and brutal Gregor as the Crown’s champion, and had wanted to kill two birds with one arrow, to bring her son’s - _our son’s_ \- killer to justice and to eliminate the little brother she’d always hated. And without justice for Joffrey - he spared a quick glance at Sansa, who looked pale - Cersei would not rest until those she perceived to have slighted her were punished. She would come for Sansa.

For the first time since leaving King’s Landing, Jaime felt that he had made the right decision to take Sansa to Winterfell instead of Casterly Rock. As miserable as he was in the North, as miserable as he would be in Winterfell, it would allow him to keep his vow - to keep her safe. It would leave him some shred of honor. And it was temporary, he told himself; they need only stay in the North until Cersei’s thirst for vengeance could be assuaged.

_Cersei’s thirst for vengeance will never be assuaged_ , a small voice within him said. Jaime shoved that voice down and poured wine on top of it.

“The gods are just,” said Sansa softly. She raised her goblet too, and hoisted it in the air slightly. “The King’s slayer shall be brought to justice.” She set it down without drinking.

They continued to make polite conversation for the remainder of the meal, although it was Sansa who carried most of the pleasantries while Jaime drank. Maege and Galbart murmured between them; Brienne ate in silence, stoic as always. As their plates were cleared and the servants hovered, waiting to pour more wine, Jonelle reached out and laid a hand on Sansa’s arm.

“Please, my Lady, won’t you stay overnight? Evening falls so early these days, so close to winter, and I’m afraid you won’t find Winterfell as you left it.” Her watery eyes met Sansa’s and the girl braced herself.

“I thank you for your kindness and hospitality, Lady Cerwyn, but I am eager to go home,” she replied, “although I know it is much changed.”

“You will not find Winterfell as you remember it,” Jonelle repeated, her soft fingers tightening their grip slightly on Sansa’s arm. “It has suffered much. All the North has.” The ring of her fingers grasped Sansa’s wrist as her eyes met the girl’s and she raised her eyebrows in significance. “You may find yourself more comfortable at Castle Cerwyn for the time being, my Lady."

Sansa laid her free hand over Jonelle’s lightly, then gently pulled her hand away. “All the same, Lady Cerwyn, I am ready to return. If you’ve any furs to spare for the time being, and any provisions you may send with our company, I swear to you that Winterfell will repay the kindness. My husband and I left the Capitol in a hurry and are not adequately prepared for a Northern winter. We haven’t a maester, so if I knew that I could call upon your household, it would comfort me greatly.” Their eyes met, and finally, the older woman nodded.

“House Cerwyn serves House Stark, as it has, always,” she murmured, holding Sansa’s gaze before swallowing hard and flattening her hands on the table. “Your company shall have all the furs and provisions you need for your journey to Winterfell, and Castle Cerwyn is at your service. You’ve only to ask, my Lady."

Sansa dipped her head in a courtly bow and pulled away, turning to Jaime, ready to alert him so they could continue their ride north, but Jonelle reached out, faster than Sansa would have thought possible, and gripped her by the forearm.

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” she whispered, squeezing Sansa’s wrist before pulling away. Sansa didn’t have time to react before Lady Cerwyn pushed her chair back from the table and waved at her servants, making commands of them swiftly as she drew away from the company.

The servants swept them away before Sansa knew it, and then they were in the courtyard, being presented with chests of wool and furs and horses to transport the goods the half-day’s ride North to Winterfell. There was also dried meat, and sacks of root vegetables, and quivers of fresh arrows being slung over the shoulders of their guards; the castellan of Castle Cerwyn promised them fresh horses, and the maester swore his attendance for their every need. Finally, after much heartfelt thanks and crossing of hearts, the portcullis opened again and Sansa gave rein to her mount.

_North. North. North._

The rest of the journey was spent in silence.

**

The sky began to darken in the east as they closed in on Winterfell; the snow continued to fall. Jonelle had been right - the evening fell much earlier than Sansa remembered, earlier even than in the South, and Sansa found that her eyes struggled to identify shapes in the early winter twilight. She thought she saw shadows moving in the trees on the sides of the road, and her heart quickened. _Outlaws?_ she thought, then steadied herself, fighting the panic threatening to rise within her. The horses were calm, after all, and she was well surrounded by guards. She was just seeing things in the gloom.

_Besides, Jaime will protect me_ , she thought wildly, then bit her lip. What a silly thought. She was just being a foolish girl again, Sansa thought sternly, and wrapped her woolen cloak tighter about her shoulders to rid herself of the feel of his arms around her, holding her close. She glanced at him, riding just ahead, but couldn’t make out his features in the twilight. He had been terse since leaving Castle Cerwyn, and the rest of the party rode in a companionable silence, although there was a gloom over them, as though they all felt the weight of their journey settle over them in the last legs of it. _Stupid girl._

The road looked achingly familiar now, and Sansa had to fight to control her breath as her heart raced in anticipation. _Winterfell has suffered much_ , she heard Jonelle’s voice echo in her head, and tried to prepare herself for what she was about to see.

But how could she? Nothing in the world could have prepared her for the sight that loomed up at them out of the winter dusk. The shape of it looked like Winterfell, but wrong in parts. Winter town was deserted as they rode through it, although with the onset of winter it should have been filling up with smallfolk, but nary a light flickered in the windows of the village houses. The Smoking Log was dark. Their horses were uneasy now, and Sansa heard the soft song of steel as their guards drew their swords, wary. She kept her eyes fixed forward, on the shadow of the castle rising before them, although her hands gripped the reins so tightly that her fingers shook.

Although it had been weeks, she thought she could smell blood and smoke on the air, the reek of death. Blissfully, the falling snow covered the ground in a sheet of pure white, hiding likely untold horrors from her sight. As they neared the castle Sansa could see scorch marks on the outer walls. A few lights flickered within, but largely the hold loomed dark. Sansa was used to it blazing and full of life; the sight before her nearly brought her to tears.

_Be strong, be brave_ , she chanted in her head as they rode on. Nearer and nearer, and now she could see the extent of the damage: one side of the First Keep was in ruins, and the roof of the Great Hall had collapsed entirely. Her mind reeled, and she swayed slightly in the saddle as her thoughts raced. Where were all the people - how were they to fix the destruction - what else would she find within the keep’s walls? Her childhood home, the place she’d spent long months thinking about and missing, was destroyed, and she was finally returned there only to find nothing but abandonment and ruin. She could have wept with the sick irony of it.

A handful of men emerged from the East gate and stood still, waiting for them to approach. The guards had their blades out in earnest now, and Jaime was tense, his gold hand hovering near the pommel of his sword. The leader of the party waiting at Winterfell raised a torch.

“Bronn!” Jaime exclaimed in greeting, urging his horse forward; Sansa thought there was relief in his voice. The man with the torch laughed and said something Sansa couldn’t hear. As Jaime rode forward, they exchanged words, glancing often back to Sansa and the rest of the company. In the darkness Sansa couldn’t see the expressions on their faces but their tones were hushed. She rode up to Jaime and the man, nodding to him when he looked at her. He looked a wolf, and lean from long years of winter, although winter had barely begun. His dark eyes swept her from foot to crown, and Sansa straightened her spine and raised her chin. He looked insolent, and Jaime’s mouth was thin with barely-disguised displeasure, but she kept her face carefully neutral. Jaime turned to her.

“Perhaps the Lady Cerwyn was right in asking us to remain with her for the night,” he said, his tone low. Sansa looked at him before turning her gaze to the keep before her, looming large in the darkness. It felt cold and foreboding, yet familiar, and it sang to her, a song of winter in her blood.

“My lord has brought us this far,” she said. “Another night would not change the state of things. I have been eager to return home, regardless… of - of the situation.” Her voice faltered, and she bit her lip.

Bronn took a step aside, the men behind him shuffling back, and bowed, holding up the torch. “M’lady,” he said, his voice raspy.

Sansa took a deep breath and rode through the gate.

**  
  
Winterfell was, and it was not. The keep still stood, and Sansa thought it would stand for centuries more, dark and solid and steadfast. But it was not her Winterfell, not the Winterfell she remembered, chilled and bright and bustling with life. Even at night, she remembered feeling the warmth from the underground springs, and feeling the life all around her - the horses in the stables, the dogs in the kennels, the guards in their Hall and the servants in theirs. Now Winterfell was cold, and silent, and the weight of death and emptiness was all around.

Bronn was telling Jaime about the state of the rest of the keep, and something about Bolton guards, but Sansa wasn’t listening. There was a rush in her ears, and with a sudden madness she wondered what her bedroom looked like now. Had she ever thought to return, when she last left her childhood home? Then she’d had thoughts only for the South, for her betrothal to Prince Joffrey, for being a queen someday. Now she only wanted to run to her room, curl up in her girlhood bed, and weep.

But of course, she wouldn’t be staying in her old room; she and Jaime would share her parents’ chamber. Her parents who were dead, and gone, and all of her siblings… _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, but I am the only Stark now, and I am no Stark at all._ A sob caught in her throat, and before she realized what she was doing, Sansa dug her heels into her mount’s sides and give it rein. She rode past the guards’ hall and the armory - all looted now, burned - passing under the bridge connecting the armory to the Great Keep, and turned towards a nondescript wooden door in the wall. Vaulting carelessly from horseback, she pushed open the door and stumbled, half-blind with tears, into the godswood.

Jaime watched his wife flee the courtyard of the keep, stunned momentarily into silence. Bronn had just informed him that he and his men had convinced the remaining Bolton guards to remove themselves from the premises for the time being, unless they wanted to take up the issue of their presence with the Lord and Lady of Winterfell. Jaime absentmindedly voiced his approval, noting to himself that the Boltons would be yet another issue to deal with during their residence at Winterfell, before turning despite himself to look at Brienne, still on horseback and looking around warily. She met his eye, and her steady gaze followed Sansa’s path into the castle grounds, then came back pointedly to rest on Jaime. He got the hint. _Cow._

Ordering Bronn to show their company and guards to suitable quarters, Jaime spurred his horse and went after Sansa.

He found her in the godswood, sitting under the weirwood at its heart. Her palm hovered over the pool of black water beneath it, just above its still, mirror-like face. Her skirts and cloak pooled like darkness in the new snow, and at the crunch of his boots, her face shot up. The godswood was dark, but some moonlight filtered through the weirwood’s branches and Jaime thought he saw gleaming tracks of tears on Sansa’s cheeks before she swiped at them. Her face glowed pale in the night that had descended over the North. Jaime had never known darkness like this.

He didn’t know what to say. He thought that he should try to be kind, but his instinct told him to say something witty, something biting, and yet words failed him entirely. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Sansa watched him warily before pulling back her hand from the surface of the pool and tucking it into the cloak at her side. Several moments of silence stretched between them. 

“Why did my Lord bring me here?"

Jaime was taken aback. “I - I thought you’d be safe here.” _Away from court. Away from my sweet sister._

“Safe? In my childhood home that now lies in ruins?” Sansa stood, shaking the snow from her skirts. Although tear tracks still glinted on her cheeks, she looked resolute - and inside she was breaking. She hated Jaime all of a sudden, hated him for bringing her here, for making her witness to the destruction of everything she’d once held dear, and she wished she were anywhere else, King’s Landing even, so she could die and her suffering could finally end-

_No._ Her hands balled into fists in her skirts and she steeled her spine. _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and I am a Stark, I can be brave. The gods have seen fit to bring me here. I will do my duty._ “What shall we do here, my Lord?"

Jaime took a step forward, then another, until he was standing a pace away from Sansa. Truth be told, he hadn’t thought as far ahead at this moment, hadn’t actually imagined what arriving at Winterfell would be like, what would find them there. He certainly hadn’t thought past their arrival, or past the first night’s concern of finding a warm room and a clean bed. What would they awaken to tomorrow? A burned-down castle and an empty town? Jaime’s stomach turned.

“Rebuild,” he found himself saying, although that thought hadn’t been in his mind moments prior. As he said it, he damned himself for promising something he wasn’t sure he could accomplish, not with his father and sister standing in the way, not without putting Sansa in more danger. _Oathbreaker,_ he thought. “We shall rebuild."

Then Sansa was stepping forward and her arms encircled him; instinctually, his arms moved around her, and holding her felt as right as it did that day on the Kingsroad, her slight body warm against him. She was tall for her age, and Jaime found that her face was of a height with his chest, her forehead resting lightly in the hollow between his collar and his shoulder. Cersei was nearly of a height with him, he remembered; they could look level into each other’s eyes. But Cersei was far away now, in the warmth of King’s Landing while they were in the darkness of the North, holding onto one another to keep warm. Jaime thought he felt the weirwood watching; like a fool, he hoped that the ancient tree would not judge him too harshly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, I am so, so sorry for taking so long with this chapter! This, that, and the other thing kept me busy/distracted and gave me writer's block for several months! Now that the madness of the holidays and travel is behind us, I'm back to this story and I'm here to see it through. Please let me know what you think! I have some fun things planned...


	7. Chapter 7

To her great relief, Sansa had found the Great Keep relatively whole. It had been looted and bore scorch marks on the outside of its granite walls, but the interior was largely intact, its rooms and hallways unfolding in a pattern all too familiar to her. Realizing that she was the only person who knew the layout of the keep, Sansa led Jaime and Brienne, her maids, and a handful of guards to the wing where the Stark family had kept their quarters. She walked resolutely past the door to her own room, hanging half off its hinges, and took pride in not faltering. She continued down the hall to the final door, the entrance to her parents’ bedchamber and her father’s solar, and stopped in front of it. It hung ajar, and she raised her hand to it, resting her fingertips lightly on the wood, worn smooth by time and touch of many a Stark. 

As she hovered there, torn between going in and fleeing, Jaime pushed past her, shoving open the door with his elbow, the guards following him with swords drawn. They cleared the bedchamber and the solar quickly, ensuring that no one hid in the dark corners or behind the tapestries now smelling of smoke. Brienne stood by Sansa’s side as she waited on the threshold, taking in the mess before her. The room was a wreck, the mattress spilling over the frame of the massive bed, linens strewn everywhere and ash - from the fireplace and, likely, other sources - coated the floor. Tapestries were half-torn down, hanging limply like sodden banners, and chests were open and overturned, clothing and other objects scattered. 

Jaime stomped out of the room, followed by the guards, and their eyes met briefly as Sansa stood in the doorway. Jaime looked away quickly, and went to clear the children’s chambers, where Brienne and Sansa’s maids would sleep for the time being. After a long moment, Sansa stepped inside. 

Brella and Shae got to work, righting the mattress and bundling away the dirty linens. They found relatively unscathed replacements in a chest and set to making the bed, Shae muttering curses under her breath all the while. Brienne knelt by the fireplace and worked to get a fire going, while Sansa wandered over to the window, its shutters hanging open, and looked out into the Northern night. 

The sky was blanketed in clouds, the moon invisible beneath them, and the snow kept falling. It was comforting, even as she stood among the ruins of her childhood home, in the bedchamber of the parents that she would never see again, and it was by rights hers now, hers and her Lannister husband’s. Emotions roiled within Sansa, anger and fear and a grief that threatened to swallow her whole; and somewhere beneath that, a fragile, tentative hope. This was not a homecoming she had ever imagined, but she was home all the same, away from King’s Landing, away from the Queen, and Joffrey was dead and would never harm her again. She had Brienne at her side, who had made a promise to her lady mother to protect her. 

The lady knight got the fire going at last, and the maids were attempting to sweep the ash back in the fireplace with what remained of the rushes. One of Lady Cerwyn’s chests had been brought in and furs spread across the bed. Sansa could hear banging from down the hall, where the guards were presumably restoring the other bedchambers to a livable state. She pushed the shutters open slightly, willing the brisk night air to cleanse the smell of smoke and disuse from the space, and turned back to the room to spot Jaime leaning against the door frame, arms crossed. Although he’d been watching Brienne stoke the fire, his eyes flicked to Sansa as if he sensed her movement. She didn’t know what to say, so she just looked at Jaime, dumb as a statue and feeling foolish. Between them, Brella fussed with the bedlinens while Shae rummaged in Sansa’s trunk for her shift and a comb.

“The castle is empty, save for Lannister guards, just as Bronn said,” Jaime said finally, a neutral expression on his lean face. Brienne looked up at his words, a crease forming between her pale brows, and he shrugged. “Your maids and our guards will stay in these rooms for now - it is safer, before the servants’ quarters are fully restored. Perhaps the Lady Brienne would prefer to stay in the guest quarters, along with Lady Mormont and Lord Glover?”

“No,” Brienne said, quickly and curtly. “I will sleep here, near the Lady St - Lannister.” She blinked at Jaime with her blue eyes and he felt a pang of irritation - would the dumb cow insist on following Sansa everywhere? It was beginning to feel like she was the husband and he the guard, for as close as she let him get to his own wife at times.

“Fine,” said Jaime, as if the thought didn’t bother him at all. “Then go. Guard her all night, if you wish, but I’m weary from the road.” Brienne kept looking at him suspiciously, and the pang of irritation flared. “You may rest easy. I am far too tired for any mischief.”

Brienne cast her eyes to Sansa, who nodded slightly. With one last shove at the logs in the fireplace, which sent sparks showering over the dusty rushes, the woman rose to her knees and stalked out of the room, looking at Jaime closely as she passed him. It seemed as though Brienne trusted him even less than Sansa did. 

As Brienne left the room, Jaime stepped inside and closed the door. Brella and Shae swarmed Sansa, and she turned her back to the room once more as they stripped her road-worn traveling clothes from her and dropped a linen shift over her head. She wondered if Jaime was looking, and if he was, how much he’d see; beneath the shift, her cheeks flushed red. A gust of icy wind blew in through the open shutters and raised goosebumps all over Sansa’s skin; shivering now, she took the comb from Shae’s hand before dismissing her maids with a nod and all but leaping into the bed.

She hadn’t realized that Jaime Lannister was already in it.

He’d undressed quickly and quietly, it seemed, and was seated under the covers, shaking out the furs about his legs, as she dove into the bed. If her face was red before, now it flared crimson as she choked on her breath and yanked the linens up to her neck. It was the first time they’d been in the same bed since they were wed. 

“Well, wife,” he said, watching the maids hurry out of the room, shutting the door carefully behind them, “I hadn’t realized you were so eager to be in bed with me. If I had known, perhaps I wouldn’t have stayed away from your tent all those long nights on the road.” His words sent a thrill of fear through her, but his tone was light, teasing. 

“It’s - cold,” she managed, tightening her grip on the covers and drawing her legs up to her chest. For all that she had grown more or less used to his presence on the road, brooding and moody with the occasional flash of sharp tongue or bawdy jest, it was an entirely different thing to be alone in a bed with him, barely clothed. She recalled the night he’d shown up at her door in King’s Landing, he in his cups and she in her smallclothes; he’d been crude, then, and more fox than lion with his sly green eyes. His eyes were bemused, now, as he regarded her with an interest and curiosity that made her stomach turn strangely. Even their embrace in the dark godswood had not felt so intimate as this.

She supposed she’d been lucky to put it off this long, after all. It had been many weeks since their wedding and she still remained a maid; she was certain that Tywin Lannister, if he knew, was mightily displeased. She knew she could not avoid it forever, doing the thing that would leave her Stark self behind once and for all and make her belong wholly to the Lannisters. Her heart hammered in her chest as her fingers twisted the sheet between them, but she took a deep breath, then another, willing herself to turn to him and tumble into the inevitable-

“Is it true, then,” Jaime said, “that my little brother never did manage to do his duty in the marriage bed?”

Sansa swallowed - her mouth was so dry all of a sudden - and wished she had a cup of wine beside her to calm her nerves. “M-my lord?”

“You remain a maiden, as my father claimed?”

“Y-yes, my lord.” Sansa flushed even brighter, if it were possible, and wished she could dive under the covers entirely. 

“Why? I can only assume the fault lies with Tyrion, as you are fair and pleasant, if a bit young…” Jaime trailed off, eyes studying her with a cool interest. Sansa stared resolutely at her knees. 

“A lady should not discuss such things, Ser Jaime-“

“Bugger what a lady should do. I want to know why my brother didn’t bed you as was his duty and right as your lord husband. Finding myself as his successor, you’ll understand my curiosity in what transpired - or didn’t, rather - in the bedchamber of the happy couple.”

Sansa was silent, turning his question over in her mind. It seemed like a betrayal of Tyrion, in a way, to speak of it, and he had been kind to her, although she had not wanted his kindness. But she could not think of a good reason to deny Jaime an answer. 

“He said that he w-would not touch me unless I wanted him to. Until I wanted him to.”

“And you never wanted him to?” Jaime’s mouth twisted in a wry smirk.

“No, my lord.”

“Do you want me to?”

Sansa froze. She should say yes - she should be a dutiful wife, a pleasing lady - but she had not lied to Tyrion and she did not want to lie to Jaime now. Nothing good was built on lies, she had learned that much at King’s Landing. Although lies had kept her alive, it was not a life she had wanted to live, and here, in snowy Winterfell, she felt as though she might have a new start. A second chance. A life that was not built on lies and treachery. 

It was true that she’d watched Jaime at times, while riding or in the evenings at the campfire, his broad shoulders and the blonde hair that was finally beginning to grow out. She peeked at him now. Golden stubble coated his cheeks and chin, and light golden fur covered his chest. She remembered how warm his chest had felt, even through his jerkin, when he’d held her after the brigands’ attack; she wondered briefly if it might feel that warm now. A small, mad part of her itched to touch the soft golden hair on his chest. 

But she was not ready to give up the last Stark part of her. Not to a man who was still all but a stranger, and who may still turn out to be her enemy. 

“No, my lord,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. 

Jaime’s mouth twisted again, and she found the gesture oddly similar to the way Tyrion grimaced when she told her she did not desire him. “Well,” he said after a moment of silence, “I cannot be taken to be less chivalrous than my little brother, now can I? If he would not touch you unless you desired it, then I shall do the same. Far be it from me to force myself on little girls.”

Truth be told, Jaime was relieved when Sansa said she didn’t want him. He hadn’t thought about Cersei much on the journey to Winterfell, but once he was in bed with Sansa she was an invisible third presence between them, looking out at him through Sansa’s eyes, her ghostly breath on the bare skin of his shoulders. The thought of laying a hand on Sansa with Cersei watching turned his stomach. The thought of laying a hand on Sansa didn’t appeal much to him at all, really - the girl was far too young and as skittish as a wild animal with him, for all her courtesies. When all he’d known all his life was Cersei’s warm, eager embrace, the idea of Sansa, stiff and unyielding, did little to thrill him. 

This would be a problem he’d have to deal with one day, of course, but Jaime Lannister was good at putting off problems he didn’t want to deal with. 

“Rest,” he said gruffly, before turning away from her and sliding down under the covers. He could feel her sitting there, still as a statue, as if she could hardly believe her good luck. The princess had escaped the one-handed ogre once more. Sansa wrapped her arms about her knees gingerly, resting her cheek on them, and watched Jaime’s form for long minutes as the firelight flickered and dimmed. Then she, too, laid down; the bed was warm, Jaime’s body casting off heat like he were the fire itself. He kept his eyes resolutely closed although sleep was nowhere near him, and a gust of icy wind blew through the shutters and dissipated Cersei’s astral scent from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our merry band has finally arrived at Winterfell! Now the real fun begins. 
> 
> A shorter chapter this time, but I wanted to get something published after such a long hiatus, and this one really focuses on Sansa and Jaime's interactions without too many distractions. Hope y'all enjoy!


	8. Chapter 8

When Sansa awoke in the morning, the great bed was empty. It took her a moment to remember where she was, and she rolled over, stretching, and ran a hand over the sheets where Jaime had been. They were cool; he had been gone for a while. How odd it was that she was sleeping in her parents’ marital bed now - she hadn’t ever expected to find herself here, had always assumed it would be Robb and his bride, but Robb was gone now and the halls of Winterfell were empty… tears welled in her eyes, unbidden, and she swiped at them, sitting up quickly. She was Lady of Winterfell now, and it was up to her to fill its halls with life once more. 

She pushed the covers back, shivering in the chilled room - the fire had died in the night and the window remained open, letting in brisk winter air - and her maids bustled into the room with such urgency, Sansa thought they might have been listening at the door for signs of her stirring. Brella got to work stoking the coals while Shae dug into the trunk for Sansa’s clothes. Sansa wished that she still had her gowns from Winterfell, but she had been just a girl then and had outgrown the plain, serviceable dresses during her time in King’s Landing. At the end, she had favored high-necked, long-sleeved gowns, and they would serve well in the Northern climate. Shae pulled out such a gown now, and Sansa slipped from the bed. It was time to dress and take stock of her situation. 

**  
Clothed, combed, and wrapped in a fur cloak - a gift of Jonelle Cerwyn - Sansa made her way to the kitchens. Brella tried to insist that she should take her breakfast in the solar, but Sansa wanted to see Winterfell in the light of day. She wove through the hallways, resolutely trying to suppress the memories that threatened to surface with every step she took. Here Arya, or Bran, or Old Nan… she could almost see their spectres running down the hall, further and further away from her. How did she come to be here, the last of the Starks?

The kitchens were empty, and the great hearth cold. It had not immediately occurred to Sansa that, with Winterfell under soldier occupation and winter town abandoned, the castle would be lacking in servants. There was no cook, no castellan (where were Ser Rodrik Cassel and sweet Beth? Dead, all dead?) and no maester with his ravens; only Sansa’s lady’s maids and the Lannister guards they brought. How were they to live like this?

She paused by the long table in the middle of the kitchen, scarred and stained by many years of use, and rested her fingertips atop it. Her mind swirled with the enormity of the task before her, and her half-formed thoughts ran in circles before she was startled out of her reverie by the sound of a door swinging open. It was Maege Mormont, coming in from the frosty outside with a wheel of cheese in one hand, a flagon of ale in another, and a loaf of dark bread tucked under her arm. She raised the flagon to Sansa in greeting and set the meager provisions down on the table. 

“Good morning, my Lady,” she said. “I hope you slept well?” There was a twinkle in her eye that suggested that, depending on Sansa’s answer, Jaime might find himself missing yet another appendage. 

Sansa nodded and sat. Maege produced a knife and began sawing at the cheese. 

“You’ll need servants,” she said, echoing Sansa’s earlier thoughts. Sansa just nodded again. “Have you given thought to what you’ll do?”

“Ser Jaime said I shall have to call my - the banners,” Sansa said slowly. “And - ask for men?”

Maege nodded. “He was right. Although the North is scarred from war, it cannot rebuild without Winterfell at the helm, and Winterfell cannot rebuild without its bannermen’s support.”

“Will they come?” Sansa ripped a hunk of bread from the loaf; it was hard, and stale, and difficult to tear. An eternity of meals of stale bread and plain cheese stretched before Sansa, and once more the prospect of raising Winterfell from the ashes overwhelmed her. “I am a Lannister now, and wed to the Kingslayer…” She had only heard stories of what Jaime had done on the battlefield during the war, and vague ones at that, but she was certain that his actions had not endeared himself to the Northmen. 

“They will if they know what’s good for them,” Maege said. “They may have married you off to the lions, but you’re still Ned Stark’s daughter. You’re the only Stark in Winterfell they’re going to get, now.”

“They won’t listen to me,” Sansa said doubtfully. “I’m just a girl.”

Maege snorted with derisive laughter. “And me and my daughters are just women, and yet we’re just as capable as any man, on the battlefield or at the helm of a keep. Bear Island doesn’t hold with such nonsense, and neither should you. You may be just a girl, but you’re a born Stark and the only one of ‘em to return North from that pit of vipers they call King’s Landing.” Her dark eyes watched Sansa shrewdly. “You came home when Ned didn’t, nor Robb. Can’t have been easy, surviving the war as a traitor’s daughter, but here you are. I suspect that’s got to count for something.”

Sansa shredded the bread into tiny morsels and picked at them, birdlike. A heavy stone of trepidation settled in her belly, but she tried to steel her spine. “So we are to call the banners and ask them to bend the knee? To us as Lord and Lady of Winterfell, and to the King in the South? They’ll see me as a traitor, too, here.” A traitor everywhere, she thought. Is there no escape, will I never be free? 

Maege shrugged. “Mayhaps. You’ve got to convince them that you’re their best option.”

“How?”

The older woman eyed Sansa appraisingly. “You know what it’s like to be in the grasp of the lions. What will you offer the Northmen? Can they trust you? What will you show them - are you a lion, Lady Sansa, or are you a wolf?”

Not a lion, never a lion. “Will you stay?” Sansa blurted out, working to keep the note of desperation from her voice. “Will you help?”

Maege chuckled. “If you’ll have me, my Ladyship. Besides, old Ned would never forgive me if I’d left his daughter to fend for herself.”

For the first time in a long time, a sense of peace washed over Sansa. Maege was nothing like her lady mother - the old woman was gruff, no more feminine than tomboy Arya, and as much of a lady as Pod, but Sansa had a curious feeling of being looked after and protected, a touch of maternal comfort from the strangest of places. “I would have your daughters stay, too,” she said quickly. “My mother did not keep ladies in Winterfell, but I would like to. I would be glad for their company.”

“My family and I would be honored to remain and serve Winterfell,” said Maege, solemnly, inclining her head in agreement before stuffing a hunk of cheese in her mouth. Sansa smiled, and took a bite herself. She found that the cheese did not taste so bad after all. 

**  
After breakfast, Sansa went to find Jaime. It was not difficult - the ring of steel from the courtyard gave away his location instantly. She found him sparring with Bronn, while Brienne and Pod looked on and several Lannister soldiers milled about. Sansa nodded a greeting to Brienne, but kept her distance, waiting for a break in the sparring. She did not have to wait long. Bronn spun, gracefully for a man who looked mean as a stray dog, and knocked the sword from Jaime’s left hand, sending him stumbling. Jaime swore, catching himself just short of sprawling on the muddy ground. He straightened, feeling Sansa’s eyes on him, and turned to her, annoyed by a twinge of embarrassment and shame at being seen bested at swordplay. 

“My lady wife,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards. “I trust you slept well?”

Sansa was aware of Brienne watching them closely. Everyone is so concerned for my sleep. “Well enough,” she said lightly. “My lord was up early.”

“I couldn’t sleep. Bloody cold in this ice castle of yours.”

“Yes,” Sansa agreed. “Winterfell had hot water running through its walls, when it was whole. It kept us warm even in the coldest of days - perhaps my lord remembers from his visit?” Jaime shrugged, not wanting to focus too much on what he’d done the last time he was in Winterfell, and Sansa went on, pretending not to notice his discomfort. “It is why I wanted to speak with you, my lord. I am sure you will not want to waste any time in beginning to rebuild the keep. We - Winterfell must call its banners,” she said delicately, “and we haven’t any ravens. The lady Mormont and I would ride back to Castle Cerwyn this morning and send ravens to the Northern houses from there, asking for their help in resources and men.” She watched his face closely, her own carefully masked. Jaime only grimaced. “My lord must join us, of course,” she added quickly. “Surely you will want to write to them yourself as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North?”

Jaime’s grimace deepened. “I can’t think of a thing more tedious than penning pleas to frost-bitten Northmen. They’re your people, Sansa, and I’m sure your words are far sweeter than mine. Take guards with you.” 

Sansa inclined her head, hiding a smile. She knew Jaime wouldn’t want to join them, and now at least in this she had his permission to act as Lady of Winterfell in her own right. Sometimes, Jaime Lannister was not a difficult man to predict. 

“I will go with you,” Brienne announced, striding forward. Jaime groaned, rolling his eyes, and turned away, back to Bronn, but Sansa only smiled. Brienne’s steadfast presence and her commitment made Sansa feel the safest she’d had in years. 

“I would be glad for the company, my lady Brienne,” she replied, and heard Jaime groan again as he walked away. Softly, she just laughed. 

**  
The weeks flew by in a whirlwind. Cold mornings, spare meals of plain fare, and many hours spend on horseback, in Sansa’s case, or in the practice yard, for Jaime. Sansa rode to Castle Cerwyn frequently, accompanied by Maege and Brienne, and spent long hours penning letters to Northern lords, asking for their aid in rebuilding Winterfell. Sansa chose not to breach the topic of fealty quite yet - from observing her father’s interactions with his bannermen, she thought that sort of discussion was best done in person, and it was much too soon, their position in Winterfell far too precarious to invite the Northern lords to meet now. Maege advised her, telling Sansa about the temperaments of the old lords and their younger sons, putting personalities and lives to names and sigils she knew only from the books in Winterfell’s library. Jaime trained with Bronn or watched the sellsword train Pod, and spoke to Lord Glover on occasion. Their conversations were polite and guarded, although Jaime could tell that the older man had knowledge of the North that would be useful to him if shared, which he did sometimes even though Jaime knew he did not do it out of a great love for him or his Lannister family. Sometimes he wondered why the older man even bothered with pleasantries, and then wondered the same thing about himself. 

The ravens came and went from Castle Cerwyn. Sansa wrote to Oldtown for a maester, although she suspected it would be long months before one would make his way North. Responses came from some of the greater Northern houses, Barbrey Dustin and Rodrick Ryswell begging her pardon but claiming that they had no resources left after the war to help Winterfell. Lyessa Flint and Wyman Manderly promised support such as they could muster. Sansa made note of the houses that were too far in disarray, prisoners of war she resolved to speak to Jaime about, or keeps held by Ironmen. While she had fought for survival in King’s Landing, her home had been ravaged by war, and she prayed that the North was not shattered beyond repair. Nights, she knelt in the godswood under the heart tree, lips moving soundlessly with prayer, although she did not know if it was the Old Gods or the Seven she prayed to. I am just a girl, what can I do?

At Winterfell, Jaime, Galbart, and Pod made note of the extensive damage to the keep and tried to put together a plan for rebuilding the castle and the outlying buildings. Jaime spent his days in endless frustration, getting bested in the practice yard and stumbling foolishly around discussing walls and pipes and roofing. He was a bloody soldier, the seven take it all, not a crofter! His business was on the battlefield, not repairing roofs and raising stables - not that he had much business being on the battlefield, either, if his sessions with Bronn were anything to go by. Increasingly he felt adrift and displaced. Nights, when he dined with Sansa by firelight, he was moody and sulking, drinking too much of the sour ale that was their only provision as Sansa chattered lightly about her day’s work. He fell into bed like a rock, hoping that the ale would knock him out, but he’d stay awake well into the night, his mind racing with regrets. Jaime had never been a man to think much about the future, but he was thinking now. 

Slowly, life returned to winter’s town. Hornwood men and Umbers made their way to Winterfell’s walls, Tallhart and Karstark people, smallfolk carrying bundles or riding on rickety carts, herding a sparse flock of chickens or a couple of bony goats before them. Lumber arrived from White Harbor, and stone from the Mountain Flints, delivered by men with tools and the skills to put them to use. Lord Manderly promised even to find a skilled specialist to repair the pipes that carried hot water through Winterfell, and to rebuild the glass houses. Day after day, Sansa’s hand flew across paper with quill, and Jaime tried to oversee and direct the repair of crumbled walls and collapsed roofs. 

Sansa was at Winterfell, speaking to some of the women who had arrived at winter’s town and expressed an interest in working at the keep - the castle still needed maidservants and cooks - when the first banners were sighted. A guard called out from the battlements of a company approaching, and the inhabitants of the castle stirred in anxious anticipation. No one had arrived at the keep since Sansa and Jaime’s company, nor had anyone sent word of intent to visit. Sansa hurried to the courtyard from the kitchens, and Jaime from the armory, their hearts racing. They turned their faces up towards the grey sky and the men atop the walls. Jaime wondered if his father had finally had enough of his playing house in the frozen North, and sent a company to retrieve them; Sansa’s stomach clenched with a rush of fear, she was certain that it was Cersei’s men coming to drag her back to King’s Landing to pay for all the wrongs she perceived done to her. 

“What colors do they fly?” Jaime shouted. In the quiet, Sansa reached out to wrap her fingers around his wrist, holding tight. He wouldn’t let me go, she thought, desperately, and was reassured when he laid his good hand over hers. 

After long moments, came the answer: “Blue and white. A falcon aloft atop a moon. Tis the banner of House Arryn, m'lord.”

Sansa looked up to Jaime to find him looking down at her, mirroring her expression of confusion and concern. What was the Vale doing at their doorstep?


End file.
